


And I Am Feeling Older All the Time, Running Out of Days to Get It Right

by grandfatherclock, smokeandjollyranchers



Series: Objectivist on Fire [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Community: widojest love, Dick Jokes, F/M, Fantasy Racism, Heretic!Au, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokeandjollyranchers/pseuds/smokeandjollyranchers
Summary: Bren survives. Jester survives. The Nicodrani sun is fuckingmerciless, and they brace for what comes next.
Relationships: Fjord/Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast, Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Series: Objectivist on Fire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1487768
Comments: 35
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHH, the next part of the tale <3 Heretic AU continues, as a multi-chaptered fic! You can find the first arc here: [_Kingdom Come_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1347814)_._  
  
—grandfatherclock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantasy racism trigger warning listed for Fjord being fetishized as a half-orc.

The first time Fjord has the honour of meeting the esteemed Lady Catherine Sharpe, it's before the religious meeting those holier-than-thou pricks on the coast love to soliloquize at, in reverence of their own dizzyingly pure morality. They wear too fine robes, their smiles brittle as their gazes flit over Fjord's piecemeal armour, over the way Avantika's shirt dramatically dips into revealing her cleavage as she unbuttons her sleeveless coat, and Fjord offers pleasant smiles back, demure words meant to assuage as they trail from conversation to conversation. Avantika had them convene on some bureaucratic _bullshit_, knowing they wouldn't be able to resist the bait of flaunting themselves in front of a small, relatively new _religion_—_cult_, Fjord thinks, bored as he watches the assistant to the representative of Sarenrae eye the exposed part of Fjord's arm for a moment, _they think it's a cult_—and it's Fjord's job to know what they _know_. This is the most delicate process of what they're doing, of course—the more that's achieved, the harder it is to hide, and so they must swing by the coast, swing by Nicodranas and Port Damali. See if the disturbed waters are ringing alarm bells, smooth out any holes in the timeline.

The Pelor priest is _still _talking, and Fjord resists the urge to scoff. He doubts they're in any immediate danger, the wretched old bastard is _reminiscing _about the good old days of the Menagerie Coast, when insurgent little groups that worshipped compelling personalities didn't desecrate these halls with their presence. His gaze occasionally flits to a short tiefling woman as he speaks, eyebrows furrowed with a barely contained contempt, but Fjord doesn't quite focus on _that _yet, though he certainly finds it _interesting_. His attention is rather captured by a delicate clearing of the throat that makes him turn, a gloved hand raised and inviting for him to kiss it. He does, dipping his head to do so, and when he looks up, looks to this woman who wears an elegant white dress and has a cloying touch—

"Lady Catherine Sharpe," she says, her voice as smooth as her eyes are searching. Her smooth brown hair is streaked elegantly in gray, her chin jutted out as she traces over his form with her gaze. She's a human woman, her unblemished skin almost as pale as the unstained white of her dress, and Fjord finds that distantly curious, though his attention is already captured by the way that Avantika's shoulders tense in conversation with some older priest. Her hand doesn't rest on her sheathed rapier, that's entirely inappropriate for this venue—_though_, Fjord thinks, as her eyebrows furrow as she smothers her annoyance with that pleasant smile, _there's always later_—but her arms do cross. Fjord will need to be _there _soon, will need to smooth it out, but her last name was _Sharpe_, her husband is a _minister _on the Nicodrani High Council… "It's a pleasure." Her voice is soft, head tilted as flat blue eyes watch his every little move.

Fjord smiles stiffly, though it must seem as natural as breathing to her undiscerning gaze. See, the pale of her skin is _curious_, because any local motherfucker who is pale in _Nicodranas_, with the glaring sun and the endless day that pushes on long past when it should, the sky brilliant shades of blue, is an _entitled_ fuck, sheltered and indoors. She watches Fjord like he's a curiosity, he doesn't _miss _the fascination with the piecemeal armour strapped onto his body, with the silk shirt and black trousers underneath. Her gaze travels over the angles of his face, over his _scars, _and Fjord pulls his lips into a lazy half-smile as she watches the scar there, making her head tilt as he allows his hand to linger for a moment longer on her own before letting her go. "The pleasure is _entirely _my own." He allows a depth into his voice as an expression of openness filters onto the way his lips are set, onto the crease between his eyebrows. "My name's Fjord, I'm with Captain Avantika's crew." Her eyes seem to darken at the drawl to his voice, and Fjord's smile widens at _that_, insincere as it is, bored as he is. 

“Oh, you absolutely _must_ tell me tales of your exploits,” Lady Sharpe says, eyes seeming to glitter as she lilts closer to him. There’s something calculating in her gaze, the pale of her eyes watching every one of Fjord’s little movements. He thinks despite her common and unclever fascination with his green skin and his pointed ears—Nicodranas is a trading hub, and all sorts of so-called _monstrous _races have made their home here, but the upper class is still as stale as they come, he knows she must find everything about this domesticated little half-orc so fucking _interesting_—that she’s a little more knowing than she appears, though not much more knowing than that. Her eyes look around, lips curling in distaste as she watches the Pelor priest up on his platform, and Fjord’s eyebrow raises, because isn’t that just so very _interesting?_ “This might not be the venue, but you’re welcome in my humble home anytime, Captain.” Fjord fights the urge for his smile to widen into something unpleasant, he’s here to be _soft_ and _pretty _and a mirror to whatever else people want to push onto him, hearing their secrets and seeing what they make of the strange omens the ocean has been presenting as the waves lap with more rigour against the beautiful beaches of the Menagerie Coast. If influential politicians are more interested in _bedding_ him than interrogating the practices of a—_cult_—religion based on—_piracy—_merchant trade, then that’s good news he can give to Avantika.

It’s very good news. It _is_, and Fjord tries to quell the momentary writhing feeling of discomfort in his gut as he continues to exchange pleasantries with her. He doesn’t love how her light—_cold_, he thinks distantly, _her hands are cold, for a human_—hand traces up his arm, and he doesn’t adore the way she asks about his lineage, him offering a suitably tragic tale about being saved by the Great Leviathan as a child, just romantic enough that her face widens with empathy rather than twists with pity. They both agree that the Menagerie Coast is just _lovely_, and that one of the most wonderful things about Nicodranas is that as long as anyone is able to work hard, they can climb up in society. Which is _blatant_ bullshit, but Fjord can be her inspirational little half-orc that could, he can be the strange and pretty sailor who she dreams of fucking her senseless to interrupt the boredom of her marriage. He can tell she’s inviting him, coyly with the ability to deny, deny, _deny _at any moment, and Fjord _finally _manages to extricate himself from all that, looking across the room to notice—

A little blue tiefling. Her dress is modest, and there’s another person beside her, dark hair framing their pale face as they hold a notebook close to their chest, writing intently. Their holy symbols are modest _too_, not ornate in the least like some of these other hypocritical motherfuckers who talk a good game about _humility_. He saw her before, she watched Avantika pull him into a claiming kiss before she let him go, fingers threading through his hair before she pulled the two of them apart. _Stay on task_, Avantika hissed then, and he watches her for a moment, talking with a commandeering smile to a representative to the Moonweaver. The tension from earlier seems to have been smothered. _Stay on task_. The easy smile on his face widens, and he’s approaching the tiefling who sits at an empty table. A black sheep, how _interesting_—

_Good afternoon. Y’all mind if I join you?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a reference to Bren being severely injured, hence the _Graphic Violence_ tag!

Bren stares at the paper in front of him.

It’s unremarkable, as far as papers go, all faded. The symbol scrawled on it is smeared, all _smudged _from his blackened fingers running over it and repeatedly folding the paper, shoving it into a pocket when he could no longer bear to look at it. The paper is close to falling apart, honestly, and he should discard it. There’s nothing remarkable in it, and he can draw this strange—_heretical, traitorous, wrong, _his mind snarls at him—symbol on anything, _anywhere_. It’s just a diamond with two opposite-facing crescent moons, uneven in his lilting and trembling hand.

He can’t throw it out.

There’s _history _in this paper, after all, and all Bren can think about, eyes closing and his breath all shaky from the overpowering _intensity _of this memory that tears at his heart like a rusted blade, is that _night_, his body stumbling and bleeding red all over Jester’s nice floor. White marble with flecks of green. He was staring at _white marble with flecks of green_, trying to wince out the feeling of that androgynous and _cold _voice in his head that pushed him to _run_, and he was choking out blood, as he felt cold hands on his back, around his waist. They weren’t Master Ikithon’s, these hands were _small_, and Jester was _crying_ as she healed him, whispering a soft, _Hiiiiiiiiiiii Bren_, that just about broke the brittle shell that passed as his heart. He kept hurting her, didn’t he, hurting himself and hurting _her_, and his face was twisting with _guilt _as she pulled him up, hands on his sides as she helped him up the stairs, helped him up to her room. There were others watching, but all he did was mouth a name, and then finally _whisper _it, hating how tears were starting to form in his own eyes.

Jester looked to him, nose scrunching as she gave him a watery smile. She was lovely, and losing her for this _month _was, as Bren was slowly discovering, something _wrong_, something _impossible_. Her violet eyes were gorgeous in the lantern light, all shining and perfect like a promise, and Bren felt his chest crushing in on itself. He hated how the tears felt against his searing skin, hated the way her healing left a soft numbness where there _should_ have been pain, where he _deserved_ for there to be pain. He almost wanted to say it, almost wanted to ask her to leave some of his wounds to sink into this rotten body for good, but he knew that would hurt her _too_. Her shoulders were shaking, and she looked like she’d been hurting for so _long_. Bren felt the shame like hands around his neck, tightening and trying to _smother_ him. “Elias,” he whispered, remembering the horse that liked green apples. “I named him, Jester.” He was such a _damned_ fucking liar. _Oh Jester, you’re so fucking wrong about so many things, _he spit at her what seemed like a lifetime ago. _He was such a liar._

“Okay,” Jester whispered, and Bren didn’t even know when she’d lifted him onto her bed, didn’t even know when they’d passed the threshold into her _room._ The bed was too soft, and he felt his muscles almost _instinctively _relax into the layered bed sheets as he felt himself asking for _paper_. He didn’t even know _why_, but he was asking for _paper_, and the aching in his arms felt fucking _blistering_, the spots where he _knew_ the residuum was embedded seeming to tear at his skin and unmake him just a little at a time. This stinging _pain _that caused him to blink back further tears in his eyes. Jester looked like she would rather _die _than let him go for even one fucking _second_, and she cradled Bren close as she instructed _somebody _to give him some paper, and a utensil to write with. Bren didn’t care who it was, he just needed _paper_, and then, as he felt the sensation of it being gently thrust into his _hands_—

The red smeared against the white, and when he finished drawing the two opposite-facing crescent moons on a diamond, there was a small jolt of arcane energy that flitted through him, causing him to drop the chalk. For a moment it felt like the magic was _tearing _through his scars, _tearing_ through the residuum, and he didn’t hear a voice in his head, but he did hear a drawn _breath_. It was the fucking diety from _earlier_, the diety from the _shed_, and Bren felt himself with that slowly _slump _into Jester’s arms, the paper falling out his hands as he felt unconsciousness unwillingly thrust upon him. He could see Jester’s face as she threaded her fingers through his hair, and her hand was on his neck, checking his pulse as her eyebrows furrowed, looking at him so _sadly_, so _brightly_, so _hopefully_. All that fucking hope, and the ways that he didn’t deserve it, started to race in his head, and he opens his lips for a moment—

And then _closed _them, the exhaustion setting in. The last thing he saw before utter blackness was Jester’s lovely lips, whispering his name like an incantation.

No, that wasn’t exactly right. Like a _prayer_.

This is why he can’t throw it out, Bren realizes, jaw clenched. All this paper reminds him of is Jester’s arms around his waist, Jester’s lips reverent around his name, Jester’s hair falling over her shoulders as she leaned down to look at him, the distant sound of the storm _thundering _outside her temple by the sea. He thinks of her touch all the damned time now, even more so than when he left, when he was _gone_, when he was _empty_, and she doesn’t touch him much anymore. Her eyes are careful and her fingers dig into her dress rather than reach for his hand when she retires to her room after a long day, smiling softly at him as he reads a book on her bed. She gives him chores these days, little tasks she knows will keep his mind busy as they figure out how to _talk_, and he still doesn’t know _how _to explain to her what had happened to him. Bren has a feeling Jester has a good idea regardless, and the thought makes something in him just _twist_.

Jester doesn’t touch him, because Bren _flinches_ at her touch. He doesn’t know how to _help _it, he wishes he did. Jester gave him everything, and he can’t, after all this time, manage a good hug sometimes, and his stomach _drops _at the thought of a good _fuck_. It all fucking _hurts_, and he doesn’t know how his shitty fucking head has managed to trick itself into finding the best thing in his life something that’s going to _hurt_, but it _did_. Her cold hands on his skin make him all still and panicked, and he knows it has… more than a little to do with the way she gazes at his arms on the days the aching gets _bad_. She wants to take care of this problem for _good_, she wants to take care of _him _and pull him away from Master Ikithon even _more _permanently, and the thought of Jester with sharprel, Jester cutting open his skin and remaking him in her heretical god’s image—which is a fucking _unfair _characterization but that’s what his mind _goes_ to—makes something well in his throat that he doesn’t even fucking know how to enunciate.

Master Ikithon would find him pathetic, struggling for words. Master Ikithon would find him even more pathetic still, for struggling to keep up this same routine, still pretending at being a _Vollstrecker_ and waking up at five ante meridiem, jaw clenched as he looks down at a smudged heretical holy symbol. His arms are aching, but it’s the low, thudding kind, the kind he can ignore if he focuses on something else, _anything_ else, and right now… unfortunately, that is sitting up beside Jester’s sleeping form, and staring at this paper. She moves beside him, the soft little quirks of one in a rather _immersive _dream, and Bren spares her messy bed hair and freckled shoulders a fond, heartbroken look before gazing back at the symbol. All he can think of his accidentally kneeling at the shed, and he exhales through his teeth, running a hand through his hair. It’s short still, his face perfectly clean-shaven, the way Master Ikithon wants it, the way his face is _expected_ to be. There’s nothing else, no mission, no _master_ to report to, and Bren… has never had this time to _think _before. No _wonder_ Master Ikithon kept him so _busy_, he’s full of nervous energy and… _anticipation._

He’s… surprised he never noticed before how well-trained he was.

Bren almost _wishes _Jester would wake up, so her voice and the intricacies of her day and full his head and he doesn’t have to think of Rexxentrum, and the way Nicodranas’ horrible weather lately has reminded him of home, reminded him of carriage wheels dipping into sludge on week-long treks past certain villages. It’s almost like he’s fucking brought all his bullshit _here_, infected Jester’s sunny paradise with his presence, and he breathes through this thought, hating how it tears through his head. He’s too skittish to wake Jester _up_, he doesn’t want to be another burden that adds to all her troubles, and so he tenses his shoulders, straightening his back and gazing to the Archeart’s—just _thinking _that moniker is painful—iconography. _Corellon_, he thinks, and his lips are twisting up. He’s used to another person in his head, another person reading the sensations in his head that pass for thoughts. Master Ikithon’s presence was a shiver up his spine. _Heretic god. Apt, I suppose. Given I’m a traitor now._

There’s no answer, and Bren watches Jester’s soft curtains for a moment, watches the way they shift with the wind. They flutter, and absurdly remind him of a butterfly’s wings, a delicate kind of perfection that exists outside magic and politics and borders. Bren’s breath is kind of heavy, and his head _hurts_, feeling a kind of strain to his thoughts. He’s been alone from the Archeart since that _day_, and he raises a trembling hand, ignoring the pain as he rubs the back of his neck. _Maybe you were just hearing things_, he thinks dully, jaw shifting as he remembered how _desperately _he drew the teleportation circle that night. _Maybe you just made it up, maybe it was the Traveler_. There was a time in his life that being touched by the Traveler’s—_heresy_, his mind spits—_grace_ would’ve been his biggest nightmare.

Bren… knows all these what-ifs are just wishful thinking. He remembers that shed, he remembers burying those bodies. He knows what found him as the Kryn tore through his body with their blades and their magic. He knows what—and this _truly _makes him want to throw up—deigned that he was important enough, worth enough, _good_ enough, to _save_. He runs a hand over his face, hating and loving the way he feels bitterness just fucking _overcome_ him. _Don’t talk to me then_, he thinks, glaring at the symbol. _I’m alive because of you, I know that_. He looks away for a moment, to the way Jester’s shirt dips and he can see her impressive shoulder blades. Her skin is freckled there too, and he feels fondness sink over him, easing out the frustration. His breath is light as he closes his eyes, closing himself off to nearly all sensation. _You don’t… intend to be a master, do you?_

Nothing, nothing, _nothing_, and Bren exhales through his teeth, rubbing his scarred arms as he slowly opens his eyes. The Archeart hasn’t talked to him since that _night_, and Bren is… more than a little resentful of that, more than a little _terrified _of that. He wonders if this is some elaborate kind of revenge, helping him leave Rexxentrum only to leave him driftless against the oceans lapping at the shores of Nicodranas, too blind to even figure out how to touch the woman beside him with the ease they used to have. He can’t… he’s been a fool, he realizes, waiting for the disembodied voice to fucking _help _him. He needs a _library_, he needs books and evidence and _sources_, more than the helpful but general advice Jester and some of her advisors were able to offer on Corellon. He knows she intends to do _more_, but she’s so _busy_, and he _hates being a burden_.

Bren continues to just _sit _there, and then, eventually, he gets up off the bed, knowing he has an errand and quiet as to not disturb Jester’s sleep. She’s beautiful laying there, tightly gripping the pillow—he remembers the nights she used to tightly grip _him_, and feels so much _loss_ for those beautiful hours he spent in the cool of her arms—and he curves around her bed, hesitating for just a moment before leaning over and pressing his lips against her forehead. She crunches her nose, adorable and freckled like the rest of her, and Bren gives her sleeping form a helpless smile, before retreating back and walking over to the door. His hand curls along the cool metal of the door knob, and he spares her one final, aching look, before closing the door shut carefully behind him.

He hates how much easier it is to kiss her forehead when he doesn’t have to see the shining brightness of her violet eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Samson _hates _Bren.

He’s _rude_, and he’s _mean_, and he hisses _sycophant_ under his breath when Samson turns around, just loud enough that Samson can hear. He’s been a piece of shit since the day Jester let him into this temple, and they _know _he’s softer with _her_, and they _know _he makes her strangely _happy_. They’ve been figuring out how to be okay with Bren for the _longest_ fucking time, okay with that arrogant smile and those dismissive eyes. Okay with those too clean hands that Samson just _knows _were wet with dripping red if not today, then _recently_. He killed Oxten, and Samson doesn’t quite know how Jester reckons with that, the fact that the man who makes her smile with helpless joy spreading on her lips is the murderer who killed _Oxten_. They’ve been doing their best to manage the fallout ever since Bren made Jester _cry_, because he couldn’t _choose_, when the choice was so _obvious_. Their argument was a start to a horrible month where Jester struggled to get out of bed and had an empty smile playing on her lips and the burdens just kept _mounting _despite Samson’s best efforts to take care of things for her.

Samson isn’t too good to admit a part of them found some sick pleasure in watching that fucker mangled and bleeding on the floor, his frame shuddering as he braced himself on his hands and knees. The red was dripping into the grooves of the teleportation circle, and for a moment Samson was _pleased_. They hate themselves for it, but _fuck_, their first thought, before they went running for _Jester_, was wondering wildly if that was how _Oxten _looked, broken on a table while he cut her apart, seeing how green skin parted for red blood and white bones, the wood under her becoming thick and dark as the red seeped through. They watched Jester heal him, and found themselves _grimacing _as they followed Jester up the staircase, seeing Bren’s sagging form._ You better not die, either_, they thought viciously, _Jester will be… upset if you die_.

Jester is too used to people dying.

She gives them a soft smile now, as she raises her hand to cinch a pearl earring to her perfect, elegant ear. Her hand is freckled, and she bites her lower lip, tilting her head as she fumbles with the jewelry. Samson comes forward, and Jester lets out a sheepish laugh as they carefully hook the delicate gem against her cold skin. Their touch drags a little, and they sigh as they pull back, ignoring how their hand trembles just a little as they clasp it against their other one in front of their body. Jester is getting ready for a meeting, one of many in this bureaucratic quagmire Sharpe—their lips twist with hatred as they think that name—has thrust this temple into. They know Jester feels… a _vicious_ amount of guilt for the old mistakes of a sheltered child, and they want to offer any measure of comfort, _anything_ to make this burden on her shoulders just the slightest bit easier to bear. “Hope you and Bren play _nice,_” she giggles, her perfect accent lilting all soft as she says that fucker’s name.

Samson _knows_ what they have to do to give Jester any bit of comfort, and they aren’t going to… enjoy this. They let _none _of this trepidation show on their face as they nod, a small smile playing on their lips. Jester turns back to look at her reflection one final time, and then she _nods _to herself, straightening her back and relaxing her shoulders. “Good luck,” they say, and Jester _beams_ at them, pulling them close by the crook of their elbow to give a quick hug. Samson raises their hand almost instinctively, used to Jester’s closeness, and the feeling of their arms around her waist is… heaven. This is heaven, and they breathe slowly, trying to memorize the cinnamon of her perfume as she pulls back and carefully walks out the room in her heels. 

Samson fondly remembers how they helped her learn to balance well on them.

They stand there for one moment, and then another, and finally exhale through their teeth, walking down the corridor to the back garden. They _know _today is busy, and they _know _they’re dragging their feet, but they can’t help but nod to the children giggling and running down the halls, grin at Eloise whose smile at them kind of freezes as she realizes where they’re heading. Towards where the High Priestess assigned the black sheep of the temple, the strange sullen man with the red hair who perches on an alcove earlier than anyone else wakes up, a knife in his hand as he carves into the wood. Samson has found him with the same slab of wood for several days now, and though they… don’t _love _the idea of Bren holding a sharp object, they also know Jester didn’t take away his spellbook. She actually shook her head silently, tears still in her eyes, when Samson reached for it that night, after Bren drew the Archeart symbol with a trembling hand. Samson trusts Jester’s judgement, but she’s also _compromised_ in all this and… fuck. Fuck, it’s all so _hard_.

Bren’s smile is as haughty as it usually is, nodding coldly to Samson as he gets off the alcove right by the back garden. He slides the knife into a back pocket easily, _languidly_, and Samson spies the wooden _thing_ he’s making slide into his component pouch. Bren’s jaw shifts as he crosses his arms. He wears a red shirt and black trousers, form-fitting and perfect, and his pale blue eyes glitter as they watch Samson. His familiar stands beside him, a striped cat whose tail _snaps_ behind him, and Samson exhales unhappily at him too before gazing back to his owner.

He’s—_fuck_, he’s beautiful. Samson isn’t too blind with jealousy and resentment and all the other things priests need to be better than when they wear these robes and are on duty like Samson is to acknowledge that Bren is _beautiful_. He has long, delicate eyelashes, and his eyes are so _knowing_, his red hair framing his face so wonderfully. His intent focus clearly makes Jester feel like the most important person in the world, and that’s—that’s _good_. Jester deserves to feel good, Jester deserves people who _make_ her feel good.

They just wish Jester could see that the beauty is a fucking _act_. Everything about Bren—and _fuck_, Samson doesn’t even know his last name—is meant to entice people. The demure way he cocks his head is meant to elicit interest, and Bren _knows _the way to smile to get a blush to crawl down people’s necks down to their sternum. His jaw is sharp and elegant, and his voice is entirely too pleasant, and he’s a fucking _torturer. _Jester has a more merciful interpretation of the Traveler’s teachings than Samson does—balance to Samson means tossing Bren, murderer of Oxten, to the fucking wolves.

Bren is still looking at them, and Samson looks away, clenching their jaw and waiting for a moment to make sure their face is modulated before they open their mouth to speak. They’re careful around him, the inside thoughts have to _stay _inside for Jester’s sake. “I don’t suppose you know anything about gardening?” They raise an eyebrow, tilting their head to give Bren a sidelong look. Their hand reaches for the Traveler symbol as they watch him. _Faith, _they remind themselves, as Bren looks down to his cat, deciding how to answer Samson’s exceedingly simple question. Faith is hard, and though the Traveler doesn’t… talk to them, not in the way he talks to Jester, Samson does _trust _him. If the Traveler isn’t… willing, to get rid of Bren, then there must be _some _reason, even if Bren’s presence only makes Jester’s faith harder, even if Bren only tests it.

Bren tilts his face at them, giving them a soft smile, and _fuck, _even Bren trying to be nice is unsettling. It’s so _annoying_, Traveler help them. Bren is brilliant at making his face look all gentle and beautiful and teasing, his hair perfect in this morning light. It’s kind of _terrible_, how he twists his face into this facsimile of warmth. He’s so _talented_, Samson has to give him that, but… it’s depressing. It’s so _depressing_, and Samson won’t feel bad for him, they _won’t._ That _thing_ can contort himself into appearing kind, or important, or _sorry_, but while Jester trusts Bren, Samson never will. They _lived _in the Empire, they know what it’s capable of. It’s not _often_ Bren would come without blood on his hands.

“My parents were farmers,” he says dryly, and Samson really does _hate _that soft, _attractive_ voice.

_How quaint, _they think, teeth gritting as they look to the table beside them, staring at the different seed packages delivered the other day. _The monster has parents._ “We’ve got to get all this soil evenly distributed along the plot of the land to the right we’ve just bought. Some of the trees are coming in _today_.” They feel an _aching _migraine incoming, and look up to the sky, kind of _glowering _at the pretty blue hues and the merciless Nicodrani sun. The world looks so _beautiful _while Samson is trying not to _lose_ it right now—

As Samson talks, they watch Bren absentmindedly pull out a catmint plant. For a second Samson wonders if he’s going to _chew_ on it, if it’s some strange drug rather popular amongst Empire murderers, but then he’s muttering arcane _words_ under his breath. Samson tenses, thinking, _I just knew it, I fucking knew it_, and braces for the fucking _Fireball_, whatever it is that Bren is going to do to stab them in their front.

Instead, it’s a giant earthen cat’s paw that emerges from the newly delivered soil dumped onto the ground, one that makes Bren’s cat—_Frumpkin_, they think, annoyed with themselves for knowing that—stand on his paws and gaze at it with alert, expectant eyes. Bren smirks down at Frumpkin, and then Samson watches with wide eyes as the cat’s paw _races_ down the plot, leaving evenly placed soil in its wake as it moves along the earth. An entire’s day work, finished within the minute. Bren then turns to Samson, his face still tilted, and asks, his Zemnian accent colouring the _boredom_ in his voice, “Is this it?”

Samson… thinks they might lose their _fucking _mind. “Have you considered, _sir_”—they say _sir _with an edge in their voice, and Samson knows before they even finish their sentence that their resentment is going to spill out despite their best intentions—“that magic _might_ be what’s keeping you in the _funk _that you’re in?” They gesture to the field, to the way the dirt is so fucking _unnaturally _even. “Perhaps dirt between your fingers instead of blood might be a nice change of pace.” Bren looks _almost_ shocked by the change in their tone of voice, and Samson only shrugs, enjoying the way the unrelenting _arrogance _of that demure, _false_ smile is momentarily interrupted.

Bren’s eyes kind of glitter, and where there was dismissive dullness before, there’s _interest_ now. He seems… _surprised_, that Samson has something sharp to say to him. They wonder if the Cerberus Assembly allows their dogs the basic courtesy of being able to casually converse. “You sound like my old drug dealer.” He gently puts the catmint plant back in his component pouch, and Samson thinks wryly that isn’t that just _typical_, that the one thing he was taught to be gentle with were his magical components. 

Whatever Samson expected him to say to their retort, it wasn’t necessarily _that_. “Your old… _drug dealer?_” They tilt their head and look to his too still hands, watching how he leans down to scritch his cat behind his ears. Frumpkin purrs, and Bren _smiles._ _Fuck_, that looks real, that expression on his face looks _real_. It’s strange how young he seems when his eyes are open and his lips spread easily and he doesn’t act like a perfect dream, a tool to disarm and hurt and manipulate.

Bren is already looking away from them, to the land he tilled. “_Good honest work_,” he says, like he’s quoting somebody. The quirk to his lips turns a little bitter, and the bridge of his nose causes part of his face to become shadowed as he momentarily closes his eyes. His expression is a little colder as he opens them. “Magic is… _wonderful_. I don’t think using it to be helpful is so wrong.” He shifts his jaw as he looks to Samson. “It’s been a _while_ since I’ve… used it”—_been allowed to use it_, Samson thinks, and realizes the twinge in their chest is _empathy _for this killer—“to help people.” He laughs, and the sound is brittle in his throat. It’s not earnest in the least. It’s mocking, and a little mean. “Fucking _Dancing Lights_ so we could work at night.” He peers at Samson. “Don’t get it wrong, _magic _isn’t what’s cursed about me.”

“Your drug dealer,” Samson says after a hesitant moment, listening to the birds chirping against the wind, seeing the occasional flap of wings in the corner of their eye, “sounds wiser than whoever you let convince you to take this path you did.” Bren’s face _twists_ at that, eyes turning _dark_, and Samson hums under their breath, looking out over the field. “Surprisingly enough. I won’t lie, you did a full day’s work in under a minute, and that’s… appreciated. But you… don’t seem to feel any better, and that’s kind of what Jester wanted for you.” At _Jester_, the indignant lilt to the clench of his jaw kind of falters, and Samson sees Bren’s face become both softer and harder all at once. He looks _pained_, like the thought of cheating out of whatever help Jester is trying to give him makes him _pained_. That’s… surprising, and Samson walks over to the seeds to distract from their thoughts, looking through the packages. “What did you grow?”

Bren watches them, his eyes bright. "My drug dealer was a piece of shit," he says, pleasantly. "But being wiser than"—and he pauses, mulling over his words, and Samson wonders who he's thinking of—"being wise enough to know it's sometimes better to be an inconvenient, replaceable tool for people to use, than being a good one... maybe she had one good idea." He watches Samson's hands go through the packages, and he sighs. "Wheat. Always needed more wheat. Barley. Corn. Sometimes potatoes." He doesn't seem to enjoy the memory of his parents' farm, though Samson thinks they might have spotted something like nostalgia flit across his face.

Sam tosses him a package of potato seeds, digging through the rest in the basket. They focus on the sensation of the brown packaging paper against their pale hands, trying to figure out their racing thoughts and the man who stands languidly beside them. Pieces of the puzzle are starting to… are starting to fit into each other, and Samson exhales through their teeth. “What did you used to be addicted to? If you don’t mind me asking.” Bren is suddenly _very _fucking still, which is… which is to be expected. “We have a couple former addicts in the church, if you need support.” They pause, pulling out some tomato seeds. “If they let you have support. From what I remember, the Empire has… different ways of letting people heal, or not heal. Tell me about yours.” They keep their shoulders relaxed, their voice conversational. Open. Like this or not, like _him_ or not, Sam is an elder of this church; they _care_ about the people they’ve picked up. Or at the very least, they know how to listen.

Bren's eyes snap to them, and he _hisses_, "_I wasn't—_", before remembering himself, remembering his _act_, and that lazy, damnable smile is back on his lips. "That's... sweet." He doesn't seem to know how else to put it, and he clenches his jaw, looking away, fiddling with the package Samson threw him. He stares down at it almost _resentfully_, the rough brown of it stark against his translucent skin. He has delicate hands, for a killer. Samson watches his fingers for a moment, watches the way the light brown fades into rough black. He was burned, and Samson wonders how that happened—if it was his people, or, and their lips _twist_ at this, enemy _heretics_. Maybe it was something that built up over time, maybe thousands of his little sins built into this blackening of his elegant fingers. "It's... that's not how it was. It was stupid. It's fine."

Samson shrugs. "I'm not going to force you to tell me about it," they say, and they really _aren’t_. They watch Bren for a moment, watch the way his arms are too still. Purposefully not itching them in front of Samson. It’s… kind of tragic, how in _control_ Bren constantly is. Samson is a little annoyed with themselves, for finding it tragic, but not as much as they are _concerned_. "But the option is there." Already they’re thinking of _Orna_, of a counsellor who specializing in addiction cases they could refer to Bren, thinking of all the _options _Bren has in Nicodranas.

Bren looks _annoyed_. "Don't say it like _that_." His words are _clipped_ in their lilting Zemnian accent, and he raises a hand, running it through his red hair like he _really _did not intend for all of this based on a throwaway joke he made.

"Like what?" Their voice is even. Open. Lacking judgement. Samson has done this whole priest thing for a _while_, and they’re pretty good at it.

"Like it's—" He pauses, and sighs. His hand is clenched around the package of potato seeds, and Samson watches the brown material of it _ripple_, the shadows all thick and coarse. "It was just a bad habit, if anything.” He sounds so utterly convinced of that, seeming mildly _embarrassed_ he led Samson onto believe it was some kind of cause for concern. “I learned… I learned my lesson."

Samson… doesn’t know much at all about Bren’s past. Jester has kept his secrets, but she mentioned, that night, tears on her face and in her voice as she looks up at them, that Bren’s teacher’s lessons weren’t so good. That Bren had to learn a lot of lessons. It makes their jaw clench momentarily, and then they relax their expression. “Sometimes it’s a lesson that you have to learn a few times.” Samson shrugs, walking towards the end of the field and digging a little bit so they can plant the seed. They don’t wince at the way the dirt stains these robes, they _don’t_. Bren kind of smirks at their expression, this bitter and shitty smile, and Samson exhales, looking up at him. “I’m not trying to accuse you of anything… that isn’t really our style here. But… well, we can _all_ tell you’re in pain”—Bren _stills_ at that, and Samson wonders for a moment if Bren is going to demand the hole in his performance, making Samson quirk their lips because _you were bleeding to death on our teleportation circle, you fucking wizard_—“and we would _like_ to help. You’re important to Jester, and she’s…” Their voice falters for a moment. She’s _everything_, they want to say. “She’s important to us.” 

Bren is _silent_. His expression is twisting, and he looks just a little… _miserable _standing here, arms crossed as he makes his way to where Samson is kneeling in front of the dirt. He mirrors Samson’s expression, reaching for the package and beginning to embed the seeds into the rich soil.

They look over at him for a moment, and watch the way he works. Practiced—so he wasn’t full of bullshit, talking about his parents’ farm. His black fingers thread through the dirt, his head bowing, and his hair is too short to fall over his forehead, though it does drop forward. “And you probably don’t want to talk about what led to me finding you bleeding out on the circle, so.” Bren _stills_ for a moment, and then continues to plant. “Maybe you’d like to talk about _anything_ else. I’m willing to listen to anything you want to talk about, uh, shall I call you Bren?”

"Sure." Bren’s voice is clipped, and a little hard. He’s staring at the ground, and not meeting Samson’s eyes. "I don't—it's _really_ not a problem, for you or Jest—_the High Priestess_—to worry about.” He’s all _terse_, and Samson freezes for a moment, realizing what Bren’s so afraid of. 

Being another burden on Jester’s shoulders.

Oh. Oh, _fuck. _Bren luckily doesn’t see that momentary expression on their face, their jaw clenched. “You just happened to _sound_ like her,” Bren continues, and Samson wonders who’s _her_. “And my friends”—he’s _fumbling_, halting and hesitant with his words, Samson has never heard Bren _fumble_—“the people I was with before—we have… we had a similar sense of humor."

Not used to people giving a shit about old bad habits, then. Samson can… certainly empathize with that. "What was it then, if you don't mind my knowing?" They pause, watching Bren's increasingly rigid form and tight movements, almost as if he’s not quite present in the moment, talking on old scripts. Samson doesn’t want to think about which part Bren thinks they’re playing, then, and doesn’t want to _startle_ the man into an emotionally fraught conversation. _Honestly_… after days of shittiness, Bren’s lips twisting all bitter as Samson gave him instructions, they both are… getting_ somewhere_. Finally. They say, quietly, "I wouldn't tell Jester."

Bren looks like he's seconds away from telling them to fuck off, and Samson is actually a little surprised he _hasn’t _already. "Redroot," he says, his voice kind of cold. They wonder if it’s just his general demeanor shifting, or whether saying that _word_ has twisted something in him. "I don't know what they call it in Nicodranas." He sounds like he's being _interrogated_, like he’s trying to be helpful and _good_—_a good soldier_, Samson thinks numbly—and _fuck_, Samson doesn't want _that _either.

They nod to him, gesturing toward the basket with the tools. “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think you have to _answer_ me if you don’t want to”—_I would actually fucking hate that_, they think, grimacing—“ and I hope I didn’t give you that impression.” They wince as Bren watches him, getting up and going for the basket. They did, they _did _give off that impression, and that is… mortifying.

“Don’t you expect an answer if you ask a question?” Bren’s voice is kind of amused. The most bitter sort. Still not looking at Samson.

“No, I’ve _asked_ for a question.” They keep their voice light, conversational even. Bren seems more comfortable talking about his shit when Samson doesn’t make a dramatic deal of it all. “I’m asking for an answer. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.” Sam lifts an eyebrow, looking at Bren. “Do you miss it? The disconnect from reality?” They wonder if Bren, trained to get answers, can tell if the empathy comes from a place little… closer to home than Samson’s general capacity to _care_. And they _do_. Care.

Bren picks up the basket with the tools, and saunters to them, that fey cat walking through his legs. Frumpkin gives them fucking _evil _eyes as Samson looks at him momentarily, so they flit their eyes away, back to Bren. He comes up next to Samson, and offers it to them. There's a brittle smile playing on his lips, and he runs a hand through his hair. "I'm _never_ disconnected from reality." His voice continues to be ever the facsimile of warmth. There was a bitter edge to his pleasant face. "I needed to stay awake. Had… always had shit I needed to do. It was just business." There was a sharpness in his lilting voice, a meanness to the quirk of his lips, that makes Samson think the decision wasn't nearly as rational as Bren is making it seem. "My people weren't… too impressed. They were right, of course. Short cut."

"Short cut," they echo, and Bren is too still when they say that, leaving Samson to wonder if Bren is repressing a wince. Regardless, they let it go, and bow their head, the two of them beginning to _work_, under the sweltering heat of the Nicodrani sun. Samson is pleased to see Bren sweat, his breathing uneven, though he still looks beautiful in the orange glow the morning provides. "I suppose you haven't touched it since." Bren tenses, biting his lower lip and his next inhale probably sharper than he intended, and they quickly add, "You don't have to answer. Just because I'm in _charge_—"

"Only once," he says, his voice soft and bright. "For… for an assignment." Samson pauses for a moment, before continuing to work. _Assignment_, they think wildly, _assignments like murdering Oxten_. The accusation isn’t as vicious their head anymore, though. They feel _sad_. Sad for Bren. Sad he worked for people that… that _made_ him use this substance, for whatever bullshit mission that probably fucked over innocent people. "It was nothing like an _addiction_,” Bren says, his voice quiet like he can tell where Samson’s thoughts are heading, “or whatever you're… suspecting. It was just teenage me being a shithead."

“Ah, the whole point of being a teenager is to be a _shithead_. That’s pretty normal, I think.” Samson lets out a light laugh, and Bren flicks his gaze to them, seeming surprised by it before his face twists back into that careful mask. _Getting there_, Samson thinks, surprised by how… _optimistic_ they feel. “I didn’t mean to imply you were addicted to anything. But thank you for telling me.” Samson stops to tie up their hair, and offers Bren a tie too. “I’m sorry, if they made you.” That qualifier makes it easier to hear, Samson knows it does. “You said it keeps you awake? How long did they keep awake?”

"Bad habits," Bren mutters, hesitating almost imperceptibly before accepting the tie. His hand raises, and _fuck_, he looks good with his hair tied back. It _really_ isn't fair. Samson smirks down at the seeds in their hand. "That training didn't happen until… later.” He sounds like he can’t quite believe this story is leaving his lips, but it _is_, and his eyes are widening, and— “School came easy to me, until I met one instructor.” His eyes blink, and then blink once more. “He pushed me, and suddenly I _always_ had shit I needed to do." There's a small little break in his composure, and he clenches his jaw. "That's all we tend to do in the Empire, isn't it? Squeeze more hours out of a day. Fucking _Dancing Lights_." He sounds like he’s trying to make a joke, and it kind of falters on his tongue.

Samson hums under their breath. "The Empire lends itself to bad habits."

Bren tilts his head slightly. "Tell me yours." His voice is almost kind of… _desperate_, and his eyes glitter.

“Ah.” Sam sits back on their heels for a moment, wiping the sweat off their brow. They can tell Bren wants something from _them_, something to make all this feel _equal_, like he isn’t just cutting himself open and exposing all the ways he’s broken. “I suppose that’s fair, isn’t it?” They smile at him, and Bren mirrors it, an insincere quirk to his lips. “I work like I’m being paid to, and I’m not. Sometimes I like to fight a fight there’s no point in winning, and… when I was in Alfield, taking care of my parents… I guess I leaned a little too heavy on the mead. Not much of a taste for it anymore, but I sure used to. It’s easy to make a habit a bad one, when you’re young.”

Bren smirks, and waves his charred fingers at him. "Don't I know it," he says. "You don't like alcohol anymore?" Samson shakes his head, and Bren crosses his arms, his face considering. "I find redroot to be the most fascinating shit.” His voice is distant, like he’s giving Samson a rundown of an interesting research article he read recently. _Bren_, Samson thinks, just staring at him. “Keeps you awake, and even allows you to recover some magic. Not nearly enough to make up the difference." He grins, and it’s so fucking _brittle_. "Any other student but a rube from the fields would've been able to figure an archmage could tell the difference." 

"Must've been pissed," Samson says, after a moment. Their hands momentarily clench in the dirt before they relax into their positions. _Bren learned a lot of lessons_, Jester whispered that night, raising her hand to wipe her tears on her sleeve.

Bren sits back. "He was very _disappointed._" The smile stays on his face, and his arms are _trembling_ almost imperceptibly.

Samson… is _sure _if they comment on it, Bren’s demeanor is going to flip like a switch. They know it must feel impossible to even talk about this, and so they playfully wrinkle their nose, peering at him. "_Oh_, that's always worse."

He looks up at the sun, a hand above his face so the light doesn't catch his eyes. The shadows play interestingly on his face. "Ja. Especially from him.” A pause, and there’s something like _heartbreak _playing momentarily on his beautiful face, making Samson still. _Bren learned a lot of lessons_. Jester’s voice, a thrum in their head. “Your parents very disappointed in you?" His voice is still _mean_ in its pleasantness, like he's waiting for this conversation to turn sour.

He’s _trying_, and—Samson sighs, hating that they have to admit this—he's been more receptive than they'd anticipated. He must _really_ want this fiftieth chance. “My parents have passed, actually, but no.” Bren raises his eyebrow at that, and Samson sighs. “I don’t think they were _disappointed_, per say, but they weren’t truly _there_ in the end. I might as well not have even been there. It was lonely.” 

“That’s how Jester got you?” His voice becomes all affectionate as he says _Jester_, the brittleness on his face twisting away in this moment, and that’s… that’s _endearing_. 

Samson is starting to realize that Bren kind of really loves Jester Lavorre, and that’s _endearing. _He’s a little harder to hate than he was this morning, and Samson… is starting to see the promise the Traveler must see in him, to allow him to reside in this temple. Though it might just be because the Traveler trusts Jester, and he _should_. Jester… deserves to be trusted. “That’s how I met the Traveler.” Sam corrects him. “Jester came later.” It’s annoying how a lesson seems to have finally stuck for Bren, only after Jester’s bleed all she has for him. Samson is still kind of grateful the lesson seems to have _stuck_.

Bren's pale blue eyes have a reflective quality to them. They wonder if the dislike in those eyes is reflecting the annoyance radiating off of Samson, or if he actually genuinely can't stand them. _Both_, Samson thinks, and their lips twist into a grin. _We might just kill each other before the day is over. _"It's less deserved, on your end," Bren says, "but it's clear we don't like each other." His eyes are so _knowing, _as if he can tell what Samson is thinking just by gazing at them.

“I accept all those who seek refuge under the Traveler's light," they say, their voice flat. Bren actually tilts his head back and _laughs_, this bitter and rough sound, and Samson hates how their own lips are starting to pull into a smile. More genuinely, Samson says, "I don't have to like you to fulfill my duties. One of those is putting you to work, and helping you if I can." Even if Samson wouldn’t fucking do _anything _for Jester, they… believe in the Traveler. They believe this temple stands for something, and though a part of them still wants to throw Bren to the wolves… Jester was right. They exhale, and slump their shoulders a little. Jester was _right._

"She'll ask about me." It's less a question and more a statement, and Bren picks at a loose thread in his nice shirt, dirtied like Samson’s robes.

"Most likely." They give Bren a meaningful look. "I'm not going to tell her about... the _redroot_." From the way Bren almost winces, he can tell that Bren isn’t as… past this all as he pretends. "She wouldn't _care_”—Samson _stresses _this, and though Bren’s eyes flit away, it was important to them that they say it, that Bren _hears_ it—“but I'm not going to tell her."

Bren shrugs, his movements a little listless. "She's accepted worse."

They narrow their eyes, hating the utter… _resignation_ in Bren’s lilting Zemnian voice. "That isn't the point. This is a… _personal_, private thing."

He stares at Samson, his face unreadable. Samson keeps their face as open as they can, and he finally says, his voice sounding a little lost, "You all are so"—he gestures to them, his face looking irritated, and Samson has to _smile_ at his frustrated expression—"and either this is some joke, which I think I'll learn to appreciate, or it's really fucking... _like this_. All the time."

"You'd appreciate me joking about your teenage drug habit." Samson says it slowly, waiting for Bren to laugh, to realize how ridiculous those words sound strung together.

Bren looks at him, and he does not laugh, and—_fuck, _Samson thinks, jaw clenching—_alright_, Samson can see it. They hate that they can, but they _do_. He's a fucker, and he's a murderer, and he made Jester _cry_, but Samson can see it. He can see how the way Bren speaks can mean something a little more than _complete_ and utter bullshit, can see how he, when he isn’t _pretending_, can be… enjoyable to talk to. Enjoyable to _be_ around. "I can learn to appreciate anything."

“This isn’t....” Sam shakes their head, looking at him. They pause, thinking of a way to _explain _that the temple doesn’t like the lessons Bren is used to, the lessons Bren probably _expects_. “You aren’t… we don’t… it is. It _is_ like this, all the time. You’ve _met_ Jester right?” Bren raises an eyebrow, and Samson exhales. “The aura she puts off? The kindness in her? We all strive to be as open and forgiving as she is. So me, sitting here, talking to you, trying to see if I can help? It isn’t a joke. I want to help you.” Sam shakes their head, going back to work. “You don’t _have_ to appreciate anything you don’t want to, Bren. You don’t have to like me, you don’t have to worship the Traveler, you don’t have to feel like it’s something you have to force yourself to like. Or appreciate, I suppose, to use your words. You don’t have to do any of that. The only thing I’ll even ask you to do is _try_ to heal, for yourself. Because you clearly want to survive, even if you’re just figuring it out.”

There’s the _biggest_ pause after Samson finishes talking, and they worry for a moment that they might have… pushed him into himself, but he _needs_ to hear that. He needs to hear that he is in a place full of people like the Traveler, like Jester, and that it’s okay to just… let go of that shitty expression and those tightly tensed shoulders. “"That sounds like a bad joke," Bren murmurs, but he isn't looking at Samson. They gather he isn't really talking to them either. He's looking at the dirt where he just planted the seeds, and there's something annoyed in his expression. They open their mouth, their eyes narrowed, but his eyes flash to Samson's, and he smiles. "I'm going to give you something."

Samson furrows their eyebrows. A strange and abrupt diverting sentence, even for _Bren. _"Huh? Bren”—the name still sounds so _awkward_ in Samson’s tongue, and Samson… hopes it gets better, they really do—“what are you—"

"It will take me some time, and some money, but I have both.” Bren sounds like he’s almost talking to _himself_, and Samson stares at him. “I'm going to give you a scroll for a high level _Counterspell_."

They try to keep their voice even. _Fuck_, they think, feeling the dirt between their fingers. "Why?"

Bren gets back to work, his troubled expression now eased. Samson doesn’t like that at _all. _"So I _know_ you'll keep your mouth shut."

They sigh. "_Bren—_"

"Balance." Bren's eyes are distant, the sharp blue of them faded away. Like his thoughts are preoccupied with arcane sigils rather than the person sitting beside him, trying to snap him _out _of himself. "Take this deal, it could one day save your life."

“My silence isn’t conditional.” Sam clenches their jaw. _Fuck_, this conversation feels circular, and Samson smothers their desire to grap Bren’s shoulders and _shake _him. It’s okay, the journey is often circular, and they force their smile to be open. “And I’m not a magic user, I don’t know why I would need something like that.” 

“Take the deal, understand?” He sounds dismissive.

Samson _grits_ their teeth, and says, the priest voice in their head momentarily overtaken by the welling of frustration, “I don’t… _I don’t understand you_.”

"Anyone can use a scroll," Bren continues, still looking away. There's something a little seething in his voice, something a little mad. He sounds like this all makes perfect sense. "It's unfortunately a single use, but one well-placed _Counterspell_... it's the reason I'm here, and not _there_." And he’s gone again for a moment, his gaze very far away before it’s back on the dirt, his hand digging back in.

"You going to give me something every time you open up?" Samson crosses their arms, hating how sometimes they aren’t very patient or open at _all_. "Or do you not intend to open up?" There’s a challenge there. They don’t know Bren much at all but know he responds to _challenges._

"I intend to do what I have to," Bren fires back. He seems _glad _that this conversation has gotten more combative, and Samson’s stomach kind of drops. "And maybe I'll trust you one day”—there’s a mocking lilt to that, eyes glittering like it’s some crazy fever dream—“but right now I don't. If you're from the Empire, you _know_ how important magic is. Take the fucking deal."

“We aren’t _in_ the Empire anymore, Bren.” Samson _exhales_, raising their hand to wipe it on their robes.

“_Take. The. Deal._” Bren sounds checked _out._

“... Fine. Deal.” Sam rolls their eyes, looking him up and down. “You know you can’t just make deals to cover up for any sort of emotional vulnerability.”

"I know," Bren mutters. "Don't I know." He looks away, and then continues to work in silence, his pace a little more furious. Samson sighs, looking at him for a moment before following in his movements. It's to be expected, they suppose. Progress ebbs and flows. Bren was vulnerable with them, even if he immediately regretted it, and that, well. That counts for something.

The two of them work until the night starts to set in, taking breaks here and there to eat and rest. Bren seems determined to be _busy_, to be _useful_, and he works himself to the bone, not using magic anymore. Samson tries to talk to him about that, but Bren is all terse, all _skittish, _so they lay off. They have a feeling Bren did as much… reflection as Bren was capable of, today. So they smile, and they work, and when they come back to the temple to give Jester an update on how the garden is going, knowing she returned around then after her long meeting, they give her a gentle smile as Jester bounces over to them, leaning over while Samson unlaces their boots. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii Sam, how did that go?”

“He can till a field with one spell.” Their voice sounds a little funny—not judgemental, and not fawning either. Just considering.

Jester tilts her head, and Traveler help them, she’s fucking _radiant_. Samson swears sometimes they feel their own heart thudding in their chest. Her violet eyes seem to see through the reluctance of that one sentence, and a small smile crawls on her lovely painted lips. The pearls still twinkle on her ears, and Samson stares at them for a moment before looking away. “I mean… that’s good right?” Her lips curve into a smile at the way Samson is _grimacing._

Samson sighs. "… I suppose." They look at Jester fondly. _You were right,_ they think, crossing their arms. _You were right, you right, you were right—_

Jester smirks. "I saw him _earlier_, just passing by. Dirt all over his clothes."

Sam gestures to the field. "We planted potatoes. He's good at it. Turns out his parents were farmers or something."

Jester has a funny look on her face. "He _told_ you that?" Her lips break into a huge smile.

Traveler help them, she's _everything_. Bren is so fucking lucky, but it makes Samson feel slightly better that at least the fucker _knows. _Knows he’s fucking _lucky._ "He's... trying."

“That’s… kind of more than I was expecting,” she whispers conspiratorially. Her hair pulls forward as she murmurs this in Samson’s ear, and her breath is cool against their skin. “He’s uh, not good at first impressions.” 

“Certainly didn’t get that vibe at all.” 

“You are making the _angriest_ face right now.”

"He's an annoying motherfucker, and I can't stand him. But he's trying." Samson closes their eyes, and thinks carefully. Jester watches him, clasping her hands together in front of her dress as she watches contemplation flit all over Samson’s face. Her bangles make a sudden sound as she does, and Samson smiles at her slender hands before looking back at her face. "He clearly hasn't been treated well. Sometimes people who aren't treated well default to… what’s familiar. That also happened, but I'm..." _Wrong, I was wrong._ "Sure that he's genuine in wanting to… be better."

Jester nods, and it’s a sad kind of smile. “I know he wants to be better, but I was also sort of worried about… how he’s been able to talk to people, after what his teacher did.” She closes her eyes for a moment, and then opens them. “Doesn’t want to talk about his problems, tries to focus on… focus on _mine_. But he’s in such a haze, and it’s harder for him now. To focus. He can be a _little_ rough.”

“A little?” Samson gives her a wry smile.

“It’s a process you know? He’s… he’s not rough.” Jester sounds _sure_ as she says that. “Not really.”

"It was when he was trying to be nice that was the worst, almost,” Samson confesses, after a moment. “Like he's imitating something he saw in a book. We only got anything done when he let himself be the utter asshole that he _is_, and not someone else."

Jester sighs. "Ja, he tends to do that."

“He’s not ready to be around kids, High Priestess.”

“Call me Jester,” she says, narrowing her eyebrows and making Samson laugh lightly. “And _okay_. I’ll keep that under advisement. But it was a nice talk?” 

“Nicer when he was a dick, but yeah, I suppose so. He should probably sleep.”

Jester wrinkles her nose. "He has a _very_ set sleep schedule," she says, her voice annoyed like this is something they _talk_ about. "It's that damn clock in his head. But I take that under advisement, too." She gives them a pointed look. "Be nice to him. Give him the Nicodrani tax code. Just—he needs to think, and we can always use another pair of hands." Her voice kind of drops a little, and Samson can see for just a half-second the _toll _being High Priestess has on her.

Sam sits up, actually hopeful. “_Does he know tax codes?_”

Jester lets out this lovely, lilting laugh, joy spreading over her lips, and Samson allows themselves to feel… hopeful.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a dick joke in this chapter with semi-explicit details regarding the anatomy of a dick.

Jester twirls with her holy symbol on her hands.

She knows logically that she shouldn’t be _nervous, _Fjord _told _her to message if she wanted to, his slitted eyes all amused and empathetic as he watched her wringing her hands that night. Her red dress fluttering in the wind. But… _fuck._ Her shoulders sink, and she allows for just a moment an expression of unbridled _exhaustion _to take over her face as she stares up at the ceiling. She pushes her chair back from her fancy desk, and exhales through her teeth, thinking of the countless _people _she had to meet today, for no real reason other than the fact that Lord Robert Sharpe hates her and wants to make her life difficult. Hours dragging into each other as they went over the subtle intricacies of what counts as an official religion according to leading Nicodrani legal scholars, her casting _Sending _to her mother to ask what connections they might be able to pull to get Sharpe off Jester’s heels. Jester _hates_ using her mother’s network, but she also knows if she _didn’t_ and the families under her care were thrust out onto the streets of Nicodranas, Marion Lavorre would be _incredibly _upset with her.

_Mama…_ Jester closes her eyes. The last time she saw Marion, it was a week ago, and her robes were black, beautifully complimenting her rich red skin and perfect figure. Jester focused on the curlers in her mother’s hair, interrupting the smooth darker red of the strands, as her mother held her hands, tightening her grip on them as Jester confessed she thought things were getting _really_ bad. Her nails were black too, shining against her elegant fingers with the _faintest_ glimmer. _I believe in you_, Marion whispered, golden iris-less eyes peering at Jester and seeming to see through the smile on her painted lips and see the _whole _of Jester. _Whatever you need, my little sapphire._

It was so _humiliating_, to exhale shakily and whisper, _I need a contact on the Nicodrani High Council_. Even though her mother immediately nodded and called on Blude to deliver her book full of contact information, Jester flushed deep violet and looked far, far away, fingers digging into her dress while she and Marion discussed the temperaments of various political figures Jester could reach out to. It was easier if she talked about _that_, it was easier if she played at fucking High Priestess rather than a needy daughter who dug herself into a hole she couldn’t crawl out of, and though Marion hugged her and told her she could have _whatever you need_, Jester still found herself blinking back tears as Samson escorted her home.

They blissfully didn’t say anything, and talked about what Jester needed to wear to court next time, how she had to hold her head up so they take you _seriously, Jester. They’re too stupid to take you seriously, so we need—_

Legitimacy. Jester exhaled sharply at that word then, and she tilts her head back against her chair now, as it tears through her mind. Jester needs _legitimacy_. She needs something, a _key _to this all, to make herself important to people, to the _right _people.

Her jaw clenches as she thinks of _Bren_, too. Bren, who’s already going through an entire fucking… war she knows he’s trying to spare her from. It’s too _late_ for that, and she wishes her bed wasn’t empty when she woke up. A cruel part of her thinks that even when he was running away he would still always wake her _up _to kiss her goodbye, and she wishes she could… just talk to him. Ever since he came back—_home_, Jester thinks fiercely, _one day he could consider this place home_—the temple, he’s been nervous, nervous take up _space_ in Jester’s life, and _fuck_, she wishes… she just wishes.

There was a reference someone mentioned, when she at a meeting asked if anyone knew leading magical scholars. Her eyes were all big and curious, and then one of the advisors exhaled, giving her this half-smile that made Jester _beam_, leaning close because they knew something. Anything. They knew _anything_, and Jester was _desperate_. She tried not to let it show so much as they cleared their throat. _Yussa Errenis, High Priestess_. Jester mouthed that name back, and they nodded. _An archmage. He hides in his tower_.

_The tower like a dick?_ She mimicked how the tower increased in height the closer you got to it, in the way she noticed the longer she’d been _out _in Nicodranas. _Not in a bedroom only,_ she thought, something in her gut _twisting_. She _knew _this wasn’t how it worked, but she imitated the tower rising and falling like an erect cock, and the tension in the room was momentarily lifted, the way the table broke into a laugh making Jester’s own shoulders sink just a little.

They didn’t know why she asked was for _Bren_, no one knew about _Bren_, they thought it was for the legal case they were making, but she learned that Yussa Errenis, of the Open Quay district, had been a thorn in the side of the Clovis Concord and the political establishment for some time now. Which meant a thorn in the side of _Sharpe_. Jester wrote Yussa’s name down with her purple pen, dotting the _i_ in Yussa’s name cheerfully with a heart to try to derive _some_ joy out of this draining fucking _day_, but her smile soon vanished as she thought of _why_ she needed to talk to Yussah at all.

Bren’s arms. Bren’s _arms. _The arms that he pretends don’t hurt as much as they hurt. Bren, and that sick relationship he has with the memory of his teacher, with the pain the residuum inflicts on him. Bren, Bren, _Bren_. Bren, who doesn’t touch her. She can feel something a little shuddering in her breath, and she raises one hand, blinking a little as she feels _tears_ forming in her eyes. Bren, who can hardly talk to her—

_One step at a time_, the Traveler whispers. She feels his presence like a heavy blanket, and leans back, closing her eyes as she sinks into the comfort of the cushioned chair and his grip. _You’re not alone, dear_. Jester exhales, her breath all startled, and she forces her jaw to unclench, silencing how she wants to say she certainly fucking _feels _a little alone. Bren feels farther than _ever_, and it honestly feels like the entire world is pushing itself farther away from her too, judging her for old sins and slowly floating away like a balloon with a detached string. It’s… it’s _unfair._ Jester winces at the petulance of the thought, and hears the sound of the Traveler’s breath in her ear. It’s so _familiar _and comforting that she has to smile. _How about Sending to the pretty sailor?_

A smile works on her face as she thinks of Fjord, of his slitted eyes and scarred upper lip. The Traveler has been antsy about him, about the _Squalleater_, about the ocean, and Jester has indulged his pestering for her to keep contacting him, asking about the weather, asking about ill omens. They haven’t gotten any bad news yet, but that only makes the Traveler _more _tense, _more _concerned, _more_ paranoid. Jester doesn’t mind contacting Fjord, honestly. He really _is_ pretty, his face all angular and the grey streaking the inky black of his hair so _beautifully_, and she focuses on the intricacies of his appearance as she casts _Sending_. The way his eyes glittered in the lilting Nicodrani sunlight as they walked outside the double doors of that obnoxious religious conference, their dialogue easy and a balm against the… fucking _torment_ of that month. It was nice to be with someone who didn’t know to feel pity for her.

“Hiiiiiii, Fjord,” she giggles, and the holy symbol feels _hot _in her grip. “Are you doing okay, though? Coming to the conference next week?” She tries not to sound too desperate, and then abandons the pretense, exhaling sharply. She _needs_ friendly faces there. “I could use your help, you know? How’s the ocean?” The Traveler’s prophecy of something _unnatural _underneath the surface sounds so… fucking ominous, and she _needs_ someone to back this up. If he’s right… she can avert a crisis and earn herself some fucking _legitimacy_, all at the same time. “I missed you, Fjord. _Byeeeee_.”

Jester closes her eyes, the stress of sending the message—_the embarrassment of asking for help_, she thinks, kind of exhaling, _I’ve done it a lot lately_—now leaving her system. She slumps, and then reaches for a pastry, _smushing _in her mouth as she writes down a couple more notes in her glittering pen about what she knows about Yussa. She doesn’t… want to expose Bren to a powerful archmage if she can _help _it, and it’s been hard enough talking about the _residuum—_

_Jester_. Fjord practically _whispers_ it, and this is… the _absence _of emotion. Her train of thought absolutely _stops_ at the _chill _in Fjord’s voice as he answers her. She’s used to him being cocksure, used to that drawl like liquid honey that’s endearing despite the carefulness of his every exhale, always _watching _the reactions of the people around him. She’s used to hearing the smile in his voice, knowing how perfect he is at expressing intent through the timbre of his tone. This isn’t the first _Sending _she’s sent him, after all.

There’s a frightening quiet that has her staring at the storm brewing outside her window and clenching her jaw. Fjord lets out this hoarse laugh, and she’s… absolutely stricken by the absence of bullshit in the _roughness_ of the way he sounds. _Avantika is dead. _She _freezes _at that. Oh, _fuck_. Her fingers _clench _around her holy symbol. _It’s like the whole world’s gone mad, I don’t… _Another shaky laugh, with a small little edge of hysteria to it. _I thought I knew, but… _His voice trails off, and Jester realizes he’s no longer speaking.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, _oh fuck_. Jester has… _no _idea what to make of this all, despite being absolutely _crushed _for Fjord. She doesn’t really understand the way his and Avantika’s relationship worked, didn’t really like how Fjord was so _evasive _about Avantika’s every detail, but… holy _fuck_. Her heart is just _broken_ for him. She quickly casts again, trying not to think about what all this madness _means_, trying not to think about how _this _is easier, caring about _others _is easier. “Fjord, are you _okay_?” She blinks, and gives the room a weak smile. “It’s a stupid question, but _are_ you? Where are you? What do you need?” It’s a question… Jester privately thinks neither she nor Fjord are used to. _What do you need?_ Marion’s soft smile. _Whatever you need, my little sapphire. _She wrings her hands anxiously, and waits for his response, biting the inside of her cheek.

A pause. It’s a _long_ one, and Jester _jumps _a little in her seat as she hears the lightning outside coincide with the intake of Fjord’s breath. Her shoulders sink in relief, she thought for a moment he wouldn’t _answer_. _I need… to come back_, Fjord says numbly. _I’ll see you, Jester_. The sensation of his breath and trembling voice cuts _off _in Jester’s head, and Jester _blinks _in silence at his abrupt and cold answer. She represses the urge to _wince_, to take it _personally_, and reminds herself he’s in _grief_. It’s going to be _okay,_ he’s going to come back to Nicodranas and they’ll figure this all out.

He’ll have a harder time evading Jester when he’s right in front of her.

Trying to work after _that _exchange is kind of impossible, and though Jester _tries_, after a good five minutes she swears the words in the thick document she’s supposed to read are blurring together. She runs her hand through her hair and swears in the silence, snarling a quick, _Fuck_, in Infernal to the empty room, the frustration bleeding into it fucking _startling_. She gets up off her chair, trying not to feel guilt as her chair leg skids against the carpet, and trudges through the halls, giving the people who pass her an easy smile. She forces the gait of her movement to become _confident_, and she tries not to wince as her heels clink against the stairs, walking up, up, _up_ until she’s in front of the door to her room.

She exhales, and stares at it for a moment. Her gaze trails over the familiar grooves of the hardwood, and then she chastises herself for _hesitating_ in that small half-second, because that’s what she’s doing, she’s _hesitating. _There’s one more moment of deliberation, and then she swears in the solace of her own mind_,_ pushing open the door.

Bren is… radiant, of course. His hair is wet, and he’s all clean from all the _work _he and Samson did today. Jester tries not to smirk at the _resistance _on Samson’s face to complimenting him, and thinks about their advice to keep him away from the general temple population for only a moment before walking up to him. She’s careful not to touch, and Bren’s cool gaze travels over the intricacies of her face. Very _slowly_, he reaches out, his warm hand bracing against the coolness of her own skin. Jester tries not to _tremble _with relief as he leans over to kiss her chastely, his movement so _careful._ She wonders what he must make of the smile on her face right now, because his gaze is so… _tender_. Fuck, this feels _tender_, and she wants to melt into this, she’s _missed_ this. The… stiffness between them is nearly unbearable to live through, but Jester will live through it. They’ll figure it _out_. They _have_ to. “Are you okay?” he’s murmuring.

Jester thinks for a moment how _similar _that phrasing is to, _What do you need?_ She wants to say, _Nothing_. She wants to talk to him about _Samson _and how Bren opened up to them. She wants to cross her arms and dig her fingers into the crooks of her elbows and just divert, divert, di_vert_ into talking about his problems, because hers feel so _unmanageable _in this moment. Then she blinks, and she _swears_ she feels the presence of a hand squeeze her shoulder, a sensation that makes the tension in it lessen.

Jester gives him a sad smile. “My friend is going through a bad time.” She lets that just tremble in the air for a moment, and then blinks as he gently reaches for a hand, fingers blackened and intertwining with hers. He pulls her to the bed, and the two of them just _sit. _In another lifetime, she would’ve crawled up into his lap, and he would’ve smiled as she did. She’s too careful for that now, and he’s too skittish.

She’s grateful for their hands, she _is._

Some days, she swears he doesn’t even look at her.

“Talk to me,” Bren says, his voice all determined. Jester just _watches _him for a moment, because they’ve never just… done _this _before. There was never enough time to, there was barely enough time for a desperate _fuck _before he was called away again. A new experience, something else Jester is going to have to get used to. The fact that Bren has more time now to _see_ her. To _know_ her, to _want_ her, to ask her what she _needs_. To be her… be her _boyfriend_.

Her sad smile kind of widens even as her heart clenches with terror, and she absentmindedly, _impossibly,_ hears her voice shaking in the air. Bren’s thumb runs in circles over her palm, and he listens, blue eyes patient and empathetic. She cries a little, she thinks, there’s certainly the _sensation_ of wetness against her cheeks, and the night becomes a blur as it gets all late. Bren, very gently, pulls her into a soft hug, and… it’s nice. Jester sinks into the soft cloth of his shirt like she was meant to be here, she _knows_ she was. Her small frame fits perfectly into his embrace. _Nicodrani fabrics_, she thinks, as he threads his rough fingers through her hair and starts to fix the mess it is. He hums under his breath, this low and pleasant thrum. _I’m so used to you in Empire clothes_.

Despite the pressure of today, this feels… nice. She smiles, and it feels kind of real. The pressure feels kind of _eased_ as Jester relaxes into sleep with the cocoon of his warmth.


	5. Chapter 5

Bren exhales through his teeth, and grimaces down at the pavement.

He’s standing outside the ornate theatre where the religious council meeting is over… and _severely _regretting it. He knows what he thought when Jester brought it up—she was nervous to make her case to the council, the intricacies of which have… eluded Bren, despite his best efforts. His head has been so crowded lately, but he knew he could provide a degree of back-up to her. She was nervous about the state of her friend out there on the seas, and he could help her through that too, somehow. Jester deserved for some help. Selfishly, he figured there might’ve been a representative of the Archeart there _too, _someone with answers outside the scholarly articles he perused through the libraries in Nicodranas. They were helpful, but the general lore on Corellon’s beginnings weren’t… necessarily applicable to Bren’s questions.

Like why they would save a torturer to their people. The thought brings a brittle smile to his lips.

There was a man there, who wore the symbol around his neck as a pendant. He was dark-skinned and old and had a surly expression on his lips, jaw clenching as he occasionally ran his hand through his white hair, practically held up by his staff. He had a spellbook cinched at his side, and Samson murmured that this was just one of the few prominent Archeart worshippers along the coast, that there was no organized religion in this country for this deity.

Bren simply ignored them, crossing his arms and gazing away with disinterest. Ever since Samson started considering him a charity case—_someone who needs help,_ a voice that sounds a lot like Jester’s whispers in his head, making him frown—their interactions have gotten… _more _stilted. Bren hates it, wishes he could just make Samson hate him again. The more he’s dickish, the more Samson leans into their holier-than-thou priestly side, and it’s… _fuck_. It’s just a fucking _lot_.

He’s outside right now, and it’s just a fucking _lot. _He needs _air_, all this god talk and heretical iconography is making his arms feel wrong, wrong, _wrong_. The paper folded in his pocket feels all _hot_, and he exhales through his teeth, trying to breath in the fresh Nicodrani air. He doesn’t want to fucking be here, he doesn’t want to fucking listen, he hopes he managed to ditch Sam because he really doesn’t want to talk about anything either. He’d _like_ to fling himself in the ocean but that wouldn’t kill him. He’d save himself somehow. _Does that count as suicidal thoughts or actions?_ He’s bored.

The door opens behind him, and Bren stiffens, turning to snap to Samson to fucking _leave him alone, he isn't a child_, and stills as he sees another man, this half-orc, looking back at him, momentarily surprised by Bren's terse expression before his lips quirk up into a languid half-smile. Bren's eyes search his face quickly. He's handsome, with his broad shoulders and sharp undercut and slitted eyes. _Not Samson_, he thinks, relieved.

"Oh, no," he says, pouting just slightly, and Bren leans back against the wall, clenching his hands into fists. The man sounds a little amused. "But I haven't even had enough time to make a bad first impression yet."

“I thought you were someone else.” Bren mutters, looking away. “Rather pleased you're not, so not a terrible impression.”

Bren doesn’t remember seeing him inside, but he really hadn’t been paying attention. Jester told him it would only take a couple hours but they’re coming up on hour three—two hours, 54 minutes, 34, 35, 36 seconds—and she’s still in there. Arguing about _something_. He tries to be patient, tries to be understanding. She’s going through a lot, he’s trying to help, he’s _trying to help._ “Are you in the summit?”

"Yep," he says, popping the _p_. Bren raises an eyebrow—he'd be the second youngest person involved here as a priest then, after Jester. He doesn't _look_ like he belongs to a clergy. Bren can see the scars on his face, one grazing an eyebrow. His piecemeal armour that hangs loosely off his body doesn't look _worn_, but it does look _used_. "Name's Fjord." He gives Bren an easy smile. "Don't mind me, just taking a break from the bullshit." He pulls out a cigarette and places it between his lips, searching his trouser pockets. "High Priestess Lavorre always puts up such a _fight_.”

Bren doesn’t react, but he does try to remember if Jester has ever mentioned a _Fjord_ before. “What’s she fighting about?” He keeps his voice languid enough, seeing what he knows, seeing if he can tell what Bren _knows_. Something about him sets up alarm bells, but not… not deadly, just… shifty.

Fjord finds a matchbox and Bren averts his gaze as he lights a matchstick. All he can think of is his house lighting up like a candlestick, of Wulf smiling at him, their faces lit up by the orange-yellow-red hues their faces were cascaded in, and it makes him grimace. Fjord sighs, eyes flitting back to Bren as he breathes out the smoke. "Those old goats won't bring up the Traveler before the Council for approval as a state-recognized religion," he scoffs. "She even tried to get me to"—he stills, and then runs a hand through his hair, his gaze on Bren considering—"I have no idea who you are." He tilts his face, his half-smile widening. "Sorry, I tend to get loose-lipped around a pretty face."

Bren tries not to smile. _My favorite kind of target_. “Well, she must’ve thought you could help if she came to you, right? Who do you worship?” Bren sounds casual, like people do, small talk. Conversation, things he’s never been great at. “It’s not easy going up against High Priestess Lavorre.”

"Do you know her?" Fjord holds his cigarette in his hand, his eyes watching Bren.

“Our paths have crossed more than a few times.” Bren tells him, unable to help the smile on his face. “She’s strong-willed and clever. Not someone you want pissed at you.”

"... I'll save you all the palace intrigue," Fjord says, his voice drawling and his smile becoming very even. "It's hardly a secret, she's soliloquizing inside. Madame Lavorre believes the visions her god's been giving her, about the supposed _unbalance_ of the oceans, is her path to legitimacy." He sounds very skeptical, and Bren freezes, before continuing to smile languidly. This can’t be the friend Jester was talking about, who she in very general and confidential terms told Bren suffered a devastating loss out on the seas. Fjord is _grinning_. "I'm doing her a favour really—as if a joint memo will change their minds, it's not like those priests put much stock into what I say."

Hm, Bren _has_ been out of it lately, he’s in a fog for sure but he’s heard Jester talking about the ocean. Nothing so… _political_, just a horrible feeling she’s had for a _while_ now. Bren looks him over, and is hard-pressed to see a holy symbol he recognizes. “Why wouldn’t they listen to you? She seemed to think they would.”

Fjord tilts his head, his slitted eyes searching. After considering pause, he reaches out, and pulls out pendant under his loose chest armour. Bren's eyes flit to it, examining the silver nine-eyed ouroboros symbol. "The Great Leviathan," he says, amused, "isn't very recognized here either."

Bren has _no idea_ who the Great Leviathan is and that bothers him. He dedicated his life to eradicating Heretics and he’s only _now_ seeing how pointless that all is. His one little job, and he doesn’t even know what sin Master Ikithon would say this wily little sailor is commiting. It’s more than a little embarrassing. “Ah, are you needing something from the council too? Or are you just here to help High Priestess Lavorre?”

"I was in the area." Fjord shrugs leaning against the wall. He brings his cigarette back up to his lips. "She was very _insistent_ I meet her. Didn't like that what I'm seeing out in the Lucidian Ocean isn't matching what she's prophesying." He examines Bren, smirking slightly as he hides the pendant under his armour again. "I feel like you've gotten sufficient information from me. Can I have a name?"

Bren tilts his head and smiles, wondering when Jester even _met_ this guy. “I’m sorry. That is rude of me. It’s… Bren.” Hm, he didn’t lie, he didn’t lie about his name and that feels… so strange. But, like Jester _keeps_ saying, just make an effort. He remembers her lovely lips pulling into a smile, a hand on his cheek. _Just try_. Her forehead against his. _You and I just gotta try._

Fjord's smile widens. "Bren," he repeats, and it sounds strange in his drawling accent. He leans up from the wall, and he leans forward as he moves past Bren, flicking his cigarette into the trash can. He opens one of the double doors, his movements languid and easy, and Bren can hear the murmur of voices inside again. "I'd rather press you for information," Fjord admits, "like where you're from, and why you're _here_ at this summit, and what you're doing later, but I've got to endure this meeting." He sighs very deeply. "The funny thing is, I'm doing this all for _another_ very pretty, freckled blue face."

Bren lifts his brow. All he can think about is all the concern Jester had for this man who seems so fucking… unbothered. “Ah, you’re a charmer, aren’t you? You should be careful not to get your pretty faces crossed. Like I said, she’s not someone you want angry at you.”

Fjord smirks at him, his gaze raking over Bren's face, and then he's gone, a lazy half-wave and the door thudding shut as he goes.

Bren blinks, and then looks away, looks to the sprawling mess of people having picnics and trailing along the winding streets where he knows it leads into the beach. He takes another five or so minutes before he goes back inside, and hides up against the wall and listens. There’s a table set up around the centre of the large, ornate room, and Bren perches on an alcove, cocking his head as he blends into the shadows. Jester is talking loud, talking about the _Traveler_, and her gaze as Fjord enters back into the room is both a tempered kind of fury and also… also _concern._

Interesting. Bren shakes his head as he listens—_the monster settling down enough that he can be a decent boyfriend_, a voice that sounds a little like Wulf’s whispers—and keeps an eye on Fjord. Just in case.

There's a tortle beside Fjord, the two of them leaning in their chairs around the round table, and they're both watching Jester argue with a Pelor priest, an amused half-smile playing Fjord's face. The tortle leans forward and whispers something in Fjord's ear, and Fjord's lips quirk up. 

The Pelor priest scowls. "High Priestess Lavorre, how can you expect us to take your _word_ to take your warnings of unbalance seriously when you cannot even have your story validated by the captain here, or the watcher in Melora's temple?"

Jester glares back at him. "She won't _listen_, just like _you_ won't listen." Her eyes flit to Fjord, and he meets her frustrated face with this apologetic half-shrug. "And I have no idea _why_ Fjord's half of the Lucidian Ocean doesn't seem to show any signs of—"

"_Any_ of the Lucidian Ocean," Fjord says, and Jester crosses her arms.

"You were less certain the last time I discussed with you," Jester says, evenly. "You mentioned a storm around Urukaxl."

"Storms _happen_," Fjord says, leaning forward in his chair.

Jester’s smile freezes, and Bren… _braces _himself for a fucking _devastating _argument. He can see the way her hand is lightly trembling, though, can see the follower of the Archeart tilting his head. He knows Fjord is tearing her apart, just a little. He hopes his own presence here makes a difference, to her.

* * *

It’s about two hours later that Jester _storms_ out of that meeting, scowling and furious. Samson runs after her, and Bren watches her grab Fjord by the arm, pulling him to the side. Bren stills, but Fjord doesn't shove her back, simply wincing and telling the tortle to _head to that restaurant we were talking about without me, I'll catch—_

Bren slides out from where he was sitting and makes his way to them, slowly catching their conversation. "_Do you worship a snake or are you one?_" she's snapping, and Bren has to smirk.

Fjord holds up his hands. “Now, calm down—“ 

“I will _not_! Do you understand how _badly_ I needed this to go well? You and I talked three times last week! If we aren’t recognized my people can’t _stay_ with me! They’ll be homeless! _Not to mention!_ there’s something very wrong out in the ocean! What storm lasts _three days!_. It killed some of your crew and you _said_—“ 

Fuck any of the gods, Bren hasn’t seen her this angry in a long time. He approaches slowly, just enough room that he doesn’t interfere but she can see him.

"_You needed this to go well,_" Fjord says, staring at her. That edge he was only hinting at in his brief conversation with Bren has become slightly more visible, his smile more sharp. "It's making you _desperate_." Jester glares at him, her hands balled into fists, and he crosses his own arms. "_You_ are the one with the baggage here, _you_ are the one with everything to lose. _I'm_ the one who lost people to this storm, like captains _tend to lose people to storms_." He raises an eyebrow. "But you're accusing _me_ of bullshit?"

Jester looks like she might _explode_, her jaw is clenched so tight it’s like her teeth might snap. “I wouldn’t have gone up there if you hadn’t _backed me up before_! Goddamn it, Fjord, why did you come if—“ 

She sucks in a breath, and lifts up her hands. “_Forget it_, just… fuck. Forget it.”

Fjord looks at her evenly. "I didn't expect you to discuss our very private conversation with others, either." Jester's fucking _trembling_ a little, and Bren wonders if she might actually try to deck him. "But see if this can't smooth things over with the Pelor asshole." She furrows her eyebrows as he pulls something out from the bag cinched to his side. It's a sheathed blade, and he presses it into her hands. "Have someone _Identify_ that—seemed pre-Calamity." She stares at him, her eyes widening, and Fjord sighs. "Pelor symbol on the hilt. Worth a shot with him, right?"

“You just—-I can’t—“ Jester looks like she’s going to _snap_, and Bren quietly comes up and takes the blade, nodding. He puts his hand on her lower back.

Jester _glares_ at Fjord, and at the sword. “I’m _sorry_ if I let you down, Fjord. I hope it was less than you let me down.”

Fjord looks like he's trying to decide what to say. Finally, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. "You're a pleasant voice in my head, Lavorre. If you ask me do something for you, I'll do my best. But you aren't the only voice I have to consider." His gaze slides from her to Bren, and then he saunters away, his jaw shifting as he goes.

Jester wants to flip him off. Bren can just _see_ it in her eyes, and he wraps his arm around her. He ignores the soft stiffening of surprise, and smiles at the way she sinks into his grip. “So, who’s your friend?” 

“_I need to go punch something right now_.”

Samson exhales through their teeth. "Gods, I _hate_ him."

Jester swallows hard, and Bren was wondering when the rage was going to fade into sorrow. “I need to go take a walk.” She looks at Bren, and down at that sword. “Can you please see what that is? There’s an equal chance it’s _garbage_, and he’s not fucking me over twice in the same day?”

"I'll check," Bren promises. "I can ritual cast _Identify_ back at the temple. Jester... _who_ is he?" He pauses for a moment. “Is he… who you talked about?” That night, when they held hands and she just _talked_. He listened, smiling and frowning and holding her close, and… he was there for her. He _liked _being there for her, more a boyfriend than a ghost.

“He’s my friend.” She frowns. “He’s kind of the worst one I’ve ever had, too. But… he’s my friend.”

"Take that walk," Bren says, looking down at the sheathed blade before looking to the exit Fjord left through. "Hopefully I'll have some good news when you make it back to the temple."

“Thanks.” Jester scrubs a hand across her face and stalks off, trying to maintain her smile until she can get away from all of these people. 

Samson sighs, watching her run away. “That was...brutal.”

"Ja." Bren drums his fingers against the leather sheath. "She's _furious_.”

Samson shakes their head, and looks at him. “They’ve been talking on and off for the last month. Jester’s dreams about the ocean are getting worse and worse. But even what Fjord _has_ seen he won’t _admit_ to it but...”

"I've never _heard_ of the Great Leviathan," Bren says, deciding not to be bristling with Samson just this once. He begins to walk, and Samson follows. "Nine-eyed ouroboros pendant. I've never seen anything like it."

Samson’s frown gets deeper, and they lower their voice. “I can’t find _anything_ on them, not a former following, not a history, _nothing_. “ 

“Nothing like that on the Traveler, either,” Bren tells them, and they nod. 

“I know, which worries me more. I _know_ the Traveler is real.”

Bren sighs. "You've _researched_ on his god?" He raises an eyebrow. "You think he's dangerous?"

Samson shrugs. “I tried to. The library here doesn’t have much”—Bren nods at that, not looking to the Archeart worshipper—“but I talked to _every_ other temple in town, _and_ as many sailors as I could. Nothing.” They’re quiet for a moment. “I don’t… know. I can’t get a _read_ on him, not a good one. He seems genuine?”

The lack of information is… is troubling. What kind of heretic god has eluded Trent Ikithon's _collection room_? Bren gestures to the sword he's holding. "He seems to want to keep Jester's favour despite himself."

“Assuming it _is_ a pre-Calamity Relic of Pelor, and not a fake that gets her in more shit.” Samson makes a face. “I don’t know if he can be trusted. I _can’t_ tell.”

Bren finds himself _excited_ to cast _Identify_ on this thing. Fjord's face was perfectly even during the Council meeting, the man's an excellent liar. He wants to know how far the bullshit goes. He and Samson walk, and Samson raises an eyebrow at Bren's jaw shifting slightly, at the small sliding movements, but they're silent as they walk to the temple.

Bren thinks, as he hears his feet against the pavement, hands tightening around the blade, that he needs to know _more_—for himself, the Archeart an absent pressure on their chest that he, cowardly, couldn’t bear to confront even as the answers were right before his very eyes, but more importantly for _Jester_. He has to make the world easier for _Jester_, has to get her answers.

Bren sits on the floor of Jester's room and pulls out his spellbook, pulling out a pearl and an owl figure from his component pouch cinched to his belt. He knows elsewhere in the temple, Samson is doing their part—assuring them everything’s okay, being the comforting presence in Jester’s momentary absence. Then, Bren thinks, with a quirk to his lips, they’re probably going to their room, and screaming into a pillow until their voice is gone. They did their best, and Bren is going to do _his _best to help Jester.

So, he unsheathes the blade and examines the sharp golden sheen of the blade. _Show me how full of shit you are_, he thinks, remembering Fjord's languid half-smile, and then casts _Identify_, allowing the arcane words to rip through his throat. Arcane glyphs materialize around him and the sword, and his eyes widen at the sheer magical _potency_ of the _object_.

_Pre-Calamity. Blessed by Pelor. Radiant damage with each thrust of the blade, golden light streaming from each wound ripped into the enemy._ Bren blinks, hands feeling warmer than usual around the blade. How did Fjord come across this? Why was this pirate captain at this religious summit? Why did he let Jester down and lie about the devastation he felt at the loss of his captain, and then offer this?

He doesn’t think Fjord is doing this to fuck Jester. He thinks Fjord _wants_ to fuck Jester but this isn’t the same. He didn’t know what the fuck he does want though, and he knows he hurt Jester _badly_ today, and he brought this with him, meaning he _planned_ to hurt Jester badly today. 

Bren doesn’t love that at all, but he doesn’t know what to _do_ about it. Surely, there was a way to do what they needed to without humiliating Jester, not that Bren knows what they need to do, or are even _trying_ to do. He stares at the sword, and then casts _Sending_. "The sword is real," he says to Jester. "Take that walk, clear your head. I don't... we need to talk to this pirate. See if he really thinks that _you_ are _his_ friend."

There’s a couple minutes before she answers and she’s _absolutely_ been crying, he can hear it in her voice. “It’s worse that it’s real. Okay. I’ll be home soon. Is everyone okay?”

Bren recasts _Sending_. "Samson assured them," he says, feeling awkward and wincing to himself. He was practically _useless_, looking at their worried faces. "Everyone's okay, take the time you need."

“I’m already on my way.” She assures him. “Thank you, Bren.” 

Bren… feels like _such_ an asshole. He just… he had an _idea_ of this all, but he’s been so stuck inside his own head that he didn’t realize she was juggling both _him_, despite his best efforts, and the threat of homelessness. He needs to shake off some of this fog, and he clenches his jaw, and flips through to the page that has _Scrying_. He doesn't... he would've hesitated normally with Jester's friend, but Fjord fucked with Jester today, and Bren needs to get her some answers. He closes his eyes and begins to _cast_.

It’s a second before the spell catches, and Bren sucks in a breath before he’s thrown through the magic, and he can see Fjord, at a bar, laughing with the Tortle from before. Not someone who’s super broken up about what he did to his _friend_ but… also not… evil. He watches the tortle gives Fjord a sidelong look. "That was a _real_ priceless artifact," he says, a drawl to his voice. His one eye is teasing, and his smirk widens at Fjord's scoff. "Especially for a lady you met a month ago."

Fjord rolls his eyes. "It was bad luck keeping it on the ship, Orly," he mutters. "He doesn't like the competition, you know that." Bren stiffens at that. Astrid's lilting voice rings through his ears. _If he finds out, he’ll kill her, him, them, whoever. He doesn’t like the competition, you know that._

"Could've sold it," Orly says, conversationally.

“Could’ve. But she’s our friend, Orly, and it’s nice to have friends on the coast, you know?” Fjord grins. “Besides, she’s a good person, it’s hard being captain when you’re so young, you know?” 

“A sword.” Orly repeats. “Blessed by Pelor, worth actual _thousands_ of gold.” 

“She knows the sea, Orly, I trust her.”

_She knows the sea_. So he _was_ lying. So the seas _are_ unbalanced. Bren clenches his jaw. Orly is staring at Fjord with a gleaming look in his eye. "... You feel bad."

Fjord tilts his face, taking a swig from his tankard. "Stop psychoanalyzing me, old man," he drawls. "I don't _want_ her temple discredited, and I don't _want_ her people homeless. Worse comes to worst, we can take care of that old goat." Bren raises his eyebrows at that.

"Fucking with the head of the Religious Council for a twenty-one year old unrecognized High Priestess," Orly says, shaking his head and smirking. "Avantika must be rolling in her grave."

Bren stills, and watches as Fjord stiffens for a moment before giving Orley a keen look. “I didn’t _want_ to!” Fjord argues. “She knew I was around, I couldn’t tell her _no_ I wouldn’t show up for her, especially since I told her I _would_ last time we were in Nicodranas.” 

“Right,” Orly rolls his eyes. “Back when Avantika told us not to get involved with an unrecognized High Priestess because we had enough problems.” 

“And see? She was wrong, that went pretty well, all things considered.” 

“Just cost a sword.”

"Like we could use it." Fjord clasps his hands together and places his chin over it, staring at Orly. "I could tell as soon as I touched it that any of us attuning to it would've snuffed out the radiant power. All it meant to us was _money_."

"So much money," Orly grumbles.

Fjord smirks. "She's talented. She's clever. She's worth it."

“Your crew prefers money.” 

“The crew will be happy, because he’s happy. It all works out, relax, have your drink, and we’ll call today a good day, okay?”

"Sure," Orly says, and he puts a large hand on Fjord's shoulder. "I'll see you, captain."

“Good night Orly, get drunk, get laid, see you tomorrow.”

"You too," Orly says, getting up and sauntering off. Bren watches Fjord sit there in his lonesome, this considering look on his face.

Samson can’t read Fjord, and Bren doesn’t blame them, Fjord is a _liar_ right down to his bones. It’s hard to figure out what’s genuine with him, for now, it’s easier to assume nothing is. Bren exhales through his teeth, waits one final moment, and then shakes off the spell, rubbing his eye. He’s lied as much as he’s told the truth, his lies equally as important as the truth. Bren is _exhausted_ by him already. It’s— 

“It’s all bullshit.” Jester sits down next to him, miserable look on her face. “I _suck_ at being a High Priestess. You should’ve told me I sucked.”

Bren pulls her forward, and she _squeaks_, his wide smile on her face that’s so trembling and hopeful as she leans into his lap, her head against his chest. Bren… knows things have been hard, but… though the thought of surgery has been kind of tormenting, touching her has also gotten easier, with time. Getting out of his own head has made things so much _easier. _"You don't suck," Bren says, firmly. "You were honest, and you were firm in your convictions, and they didn't want to believe you. Your friend let you down. We'll salvage this day." Jester stares up at him, and Bren sighs. "If anything, _I_ suck. I haven't... I haven't been present. I'll be better about it."

“Noooo, no no,” She waves him off. “It’s a _lot_ of political crap, and a lot of it is because I _really_ pissed off this guy, and I _tried_ to make friends with him, I really did, but he was so...” Jester scowls “_Disgusting_.” She smiles apologetically. “But doesn’t all that seem dumb compared, you know, to the rest of the stuff we’re dealing with?”

"... Threatened homelessness to all the people you've saved isn't dumb, Lavorre," he says, slowly. "I _want_ to help." Jester stares at him, and Bren smiles down at her, trying to be reassuring. "And maybe we could use that dickhead, too." Jester's shoulders slump at the mention of Fjord. "He _certainly_ owes you."

“_I hate him sometimes_.” She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “He makes me second-guess myself and I _don’t_... I’m not normally like that.” She growls. “And I _do_ know better! He’s so _insecure_, and I _really_ should have seen that coming, I just—I’ve been having these _dreams_, and… fuck.”

"Do you _really_ think he's your friend, Jester?" Bren runs a hand through her hair, and she leans into his touch, like she’s missed him. It makes him blink something back. "I don't... you've known him for a month, right?" Jester nods, and Bren sighs. "... I scried on him."

Jester frowns, looking at her hands. “We aren’t friends. He needs something from me, I don’t know..._what_ but I then he _played_ me.” She looks back over at him. “That’s okay, he’s a really sketchy guy, Bren, and I really hate that the sword is real.”

Bren sighs. "I don't... _think_ he intends to fuck you over, even though he... kind of did. More like... conflicting interests." He winces, remembering his own history, those times he _himself_ sold Jester out. "He didn't like having the sword on his ship, said it made his god angry. He seems to want to help you if he can, if it doesn't affect his own plans. Said he would deal with the Pelor priest if worse came to worst."

“He did _plenty_.” She hisses, scrubbing a hand across her face. “Do you know anything about the Great Leviathan?”

_Just that he doesn't like competition._ "Fjord said his crew couldn't attune to the sword." Bren frowns and rubs his neck, thinking. "Their god wouldn't _allow_ them to—which doesn't make me think they're necessarily a _good_ presence."

Jester groans. “You’re right, that’s not _good_. Not really at all.” She pauses. “The Traveler doesn’t know either. He’s listening though, now. He’s looking.”

Bren looks to the sword. It gleams, and he can see why Jester hates it. "It would be easier if he were horrible," Bren says, and Jester grimaces. "But he isn't, even if he's a liar. He’s just good enough, I suppose.” Jester tilts her head and watches him, and Bren tries not to look too self-deprecating. _I’m just good enough_. “The situation is what it is, but... we'll recover from this day, okay? I'll help you recover from this day."

“… Today hurt.” She admits. “And the _worst_ part is no one believes that something is wrong. The homelessness and the looking stupid _sucks_, but I can deal with that if I have to. But… something is wrong.”

"_He_ saw," Bren says, allowing annoyance into his voice. "He _lied_ to the table, Jester—he said you knew the sea, that it makes him trust you."

“_Fuck_.” She looks at him, and she looks _worried_. “So I’m right… the dreams are real?” He watches vindication play out on her face, and then guilt, at feeling the vindication. It makes his heart feel bigger, seeing the complete and utter complexity and mess of her. They used to hide themselves better.

"They're real," Bren says, looking down at her and shifting his jaw. "We'll… we'll get to the bottom of this." He smiles at her gently. "After all, aren't you the greatest detective I know?"

“I dunno.” She rests her chin on his shoulder. “You got a _lot_ done today. That’s super impressive. You’re out for my title, huh?”

"Just frustrated," Bren says. "He's… frustrating."

“For now. Then you talk to him and… something is not quite right. He says all the right things and does what you’d expect but… it’s hollow.” She frowns, looking at Bren. “It’s a lot. There’s a lot. I don’t know about their god. When they showed up for the first time, he was quartermaster.”

"Avantika," he echoes. "She didn't… she didn't want Fjord to be close to you." Jester stares at him, and he flits his gaze back down to her in his lap. "The tortle, the one named Orly, said she would be _rolling in her grave_ at what Fjord is doing, involving himself with you."

Jester pulls a face. “Fjord said she kinda didn’t like me. But not because I was a dick. I don’t think she liked the Traveler, which… was weird. She was strange… she died in that storm, that we were fighting about.”

"How can he be so _unaffected_ by her death?" Bren frowns. "Were they _close_? Do you know?"

“They fuck.” Jester days. “Well they did. But… I don’t think they loved each other or anything. Just… shared a belief. He was her captain, you know? That _means_ something. You know, usually.”

"... We need to talk to him," Bren says. "I need a better read, and I want to use him to try to solve some of the problems facing the temple. He lied to _everyone_ at that round table, and they all bought it. That's _useful_, and he owes you."

Jester sighs. “He’s _really_ charming. Just so you know. Prepare yourself.”

"Not nearly as charming as _you_, Lavorre." He kisses her forehead. "Don't worry, I'll resist his bullshit."

“Okay, good.” She smiles at him. “And I won’t punch his stupid teeth in.” She gives him a sidelong smile. It's the cutest thing he's ever seen, her biting her lower lip. “Hiiiiii, Bren.”

Bren gives her a weak smile back. “Hi, Jester.” He pulls her closer in his arms. “Good to see you.”

“Missed you,” she whispers, holding him close. “Still miss you.”

“... Getting better,” he promises, wincing, and her smile is… earnest. Like she believes him.

Their kiss is sweet, like sugar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHH it lives <3 <3 <3 the heretic au lives!!! It only gets better and worse :)))))))
> 
> Thank you to everyone following along!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH, sixth chapter!! >:3 hope you all enjoy.

Fjord is… _ridiculously _charming. He has a low lilt to his voice when he speaks, and Jester is fucking thankful for the fact that they had the foresight to choose a busy coastside restaurant that looks out to the sea. The soft and pleasant talk of the other patrons fills the silence between the dialogue of the three of them, and Jester’s scowl has only become more annoyed as Fjord continues to talk.

He’s enjoying some pie right now, holding the knife and fork elegantly in his hand as he cuts himself a piece and slots it in his mouth, and in those rare instances… Jester is perceptive enough to notice the chips in those tusks that are hardly noticeable otherwise. She keeps her gaze trained away, though, and her fingers are digging into the cloth of the table. “Awfully nice of you to treat me,” Fjord says, watching the two of them. Bren’s eyebrow is raised, and Jester is thankful he’s here_, _another presence keeping her from kicking Fjord’s ass. “You both know how to show a man a good time.” He smirks around the insinuation.

Jester grits her teeth. “You let me down,” she says, as simple and straight-forward as she can manage it. _Fuck_, she’s so angry, she’s felt like she hasn’t been so angry in a while—she doesn’t know if it’s because of all the sorrow she felt on Fjord’s behalf that horrible night and the fact that he refuses to admit any sorrow to himself or others, or if everything else is compounding. She expected Lord _Sharpe _to fuck with her, and the Nicodrani courts to fuck with her, and whenever she gets down to talking to the elusive Yussa Errenis—she hasn’t managed to track down a mutual contact yet, and she can’t just cast _Sending_ on him, she needs to make a good fucking impression—she’s sure he’s going to fuck with her too.

But Fjord is her _friend._ H’s one of the few people who’s supposed to have her back. It feels unnatural being so visibly angry, not just letting this slide off her, but it’s been a _wild _month, and she’s… just fucking done with shit being slung her way.

Fjord gives her a very even look. “I think,” he says, and his accent lilts beautifully over his words. Jester resists the urge to sink into them, gazing intently into those slitted eyes. “Everything that I have to say has been _said_.” He says it matter-of-factly, without any excuse on his own part. His lips curve into a soft, almost embarrassed smile, and Jester hates that her eyes linger on his scarred upper lip for a moment. There’s a soft pause for a moment, and then Jester stills as she feels Bren’s hand on her own, a bracing warmth against the lapping fury that’s building at Fjord. “Did the sword help?”

Jester is glaring at him, and so Bren answers, his hand squeezing hers for a moment. She tries to relax into his touch. “It helped,” he murmurs, and Fjord’s gaze… fucking darkens in that moment as Bren speaks. It’s honestly kind of _ridiculous _how much Fjord is into redheads, and Jester just gives him the biggest smirk, still kind of seething, as Fjord’s gaze meets her own. _Jealous?_ she mouths, as Bren looks away, and Fjord’s lips curve into the _slowest_ smile, slitted eyes watching their clasped hands for a moment with amusement_. _Fucking _shit, _she hates that part of her genuinely does want to smile, hates that she and Fjord share in their sense of humour. “The priest backed off his more outrageous threats.”

“That’s good,” Fjord says, and he takes another bite of his fucking pie_._ “Were you there?” Bren nods slowly, and Fjord hums under his breath, giving him this charming half-smile that makes Jester narrow her eyes and Bren… Bren stills, for a moment. “Well, I’m sure that just helped things go that much smoother_._” Jester raises an eyebrow at how silky his voice gets. 

She learns things about Fjord all the damned time, doesn’t she? She just learned how it sounds when he flirts with Bren.

“I’m right _here_,” Jester intoned, but she’s not mad, not _really_. More curious of that look on Bren’s face. Jester Lavorre… is not exclusive in the least, and the Traveler champions polyamory. She just isn’t sure she’s willing to indulge Fjord’s half-lidded looks _now_, after all his antics_._

“Jester actually did most of the diplomatic talk,” Bren says, his voice low and mirroring Fjord’s. Fjord raises an eyebrow at that, and Bren gives Jester a comforting smile. Jester returns it, her heart on a high from all the credit he always gives her, and, watching Fjord, leans over to give Bren a peck on the cheek. She does it slowly, she knows touch isn’t an assured thing with him, but Bren just smiles at her, turning his face to kiss her right in front of him, a hand momentarily resting on the crook of her neck as he does so. Jester sighs into it, trying not to flush at the compliment. Playing demure with that Pelor priest was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but it was easier with Bren having her back, his pale blue eyes cold and hard so hers didn’t have to be. The display of strength less threatening when it came from another man. Jester hated that, but she was so _glad_ at least he laid off. She _really _didn’t need another enemy.

“Impressive,” Fjord tells her, and he sounds, impossibly, like he really does mean it. He smiles at her, like he’s impressed by her, like they’re _friends_, and Jester wants it really bad, wants it more than practically anything—except for her temple, and her _people_, safe. Her hands are clenched, and Fjord watches her, seeming to not notice her steadily growing anger at the way he deflects of what she said. _You let me down_, she thinks, and her heart kind of breaks, because Fjord doesn’t know how to admit he’s hurt, does he? He doesn’t, Jester doesn’t think he’s used to people not caring, but _she _cared, and when she needed him… he fucking sulked off. _You let me down, you let me down, you let me down—_ “Anyway, I’m leaving for a good while, so.” He raises a scarred eyebrow, and it kind of wrecks Jester, how lovely he is. “You’d probably like that—”

Jester _snaps_, “I _don’t_,” and before she knows it, she’s reaching over, her fist in this graceful arc in the sky as she reaches out across the table, before Bren can squeeze her hand endearingly and talk her out of it with silent looks, and _punches _Fjord. Her hand braces against his face, and though the impact isn’t huge, Jester is _trembling _as she looks at Fjord staring at her with shock, before that fucking damnable smile is on his lips. Like it’s there automatically. There’s something shifting behind his slitted eyes, though, a kind of _alarm_. Like he’s realizing for the first time how badly he’s fucked up. Gods, all she wants for him is to be _real_, is anything about him _real_, can he be fucking _real?_ “But _yeah_, run away if you want to. Run away and call that _help._” Her voice is kind of biting as she watches blood spread down his nose, a blight against his perfect green skin.

“Ow,” he says, slowly. He looks at her unhappily. “Did that make you feel better?” He looks like he’s honestly hoping it did. His gaze is so fucking knowing it makes Jester exhale angrily. “Coast kid after all. We’d all solve our fights with our fists if we could, huh?” He sounds… empathetic, and that’s _maddening._

Jester blinks, and then lets out the most disbelieving laugh. “I figured if I hurt something that actually mattered to you, you would take this seriously. But I guess not.” She turns to Bren, and she knows better than to expect judgement. He’s quietly paying the bill, and he offers Jester his hand as she gazes at him. She takes one look at those blackened fingertips and grasps them, and the two of them get up. Bren offers a polite goodbye, and Fjord says something else, something that makes Bren’s face all bemused, and then the two of them are turning, and the two of them are _leaving. _“He’s such an _ass_,” she whispers, and hates how her voice trembles.

“I hope he shapes up,” Bren says slowly, and he gives her a heartbreakingly open smile. Jester’s heart _thuds_, because she thinks he might get it, she really does. Fjord… when he’s good, he’s incredible. He’s an incredible person to know. She _wants_ to know him. “Want some cotton candy?”

Jester nods, and closes her eyes for a moment as Bren pulls her along. Then she opens them, and gives her boyfriend—_boyfriend_, her heart trills—the _biggest _smile.

_Eat your heart out, Fjord_, she thinks viciously, but she can’t even enjoy it. She thinks he rather would eat his heart out, rather just fucking… tell the truth.

She tries to lose herself in the taste of sugar in her mouth and the sensation of Bren’s soft smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter <3

Bren Aldric Ermendrud isn't _loitering_.

That would imply that he hasn't been _extremely_ productive this entire day, and he _has_, he can see it in the way Samson—and _fuck_, Bren hates that he knows their name—begrudgingly appraises him with their eyes. No one here really likes him, besides Jester, and that's fine, it's not like he likes any of them. He's alone, when Samson isn't ordering him around, and he likes not having to deal with the painful exercise of smiling stiffly at these people, knowing it doesn't make a difference. They know who he is. They know he killed Oxten—and he knows _her_ name, too.

So _no_, he isn't loitering, when he sees this little girl crying, sitting on the bench in the hall.

He looks around desperately for another adult, someone equipped to handle this, but there _isn't_, and the girl has noticed him, and she's wiping her face, and saying, with a shaking breath, "I'm, ah—I'm sorry, monsieur, I'll get back to the painting class, but—"

_Fuck_. Bren sighs, deeply, and makes his way to the farthest corner of the bench, where he then sits. "You left your class?" he asks, rubbing at his neck miserably.

She looks away, and smoothes out the wrinkles on her dress. "It's—nothing. Just a boy, picking on my—it's nothing."

Bren wonders if he should give her the advice that worked for _him_ at the Soltryce Academy, but he doubts _crush them at their own game and humiliate them beyond reprieve until they can't touch you_ is a very—well, it's a _winning_ strategy, but he doubts it fits with Jester's teachings. Maybe it does, fuck if he knows. "Is this boy frightened of adults?"

She lets out a little breathless laugh. "You're going to scare him, monsieur?"

Before he can respond, he hears the clicking of heels, and one of the followers, the one who teaches the children's classes, looks at him with wide and frightened eyes, and hisses, "Elaina, come _back_." She pulls the girl away, and gives Bren a harsh look, and Bren—because he can't fucking help himself and he's a prideful creature—gives her a shitty nod, and gets up, continuing to his room, not looking back to the eyes he knew were on his back.

_Fuck_. He grits his teeth. Samson is going to be fucking _pissed._

Samson, when they hear this gossip later, wants to maybe snap at Eloise for handling this in the _worst way possible_, or run to find Bren, or maybe just find a ditch and lay there for a long, long time. Yeah, it _was_ their advice that Bren not be allowed kids, but things have _changed_, and Bren has _changed_, and… fucking _shit._

Samson massages their forehead. "Eloise, what the fuck?" They feel… fucking _terrible_ about the fact that Bren tried to reach out and _their_ people shut him down. After all of _Samson’s_ fucking judgement. They gotta try and head this off before Jester finds out.

She crosses her arms. "What was I _supposed_ to think?" she hisses. "She was _crying_. He's a _trained interrogator_."

Samson wants to wring their hands. "She was crying when she _ran out of the class because Manny was being a little shit again_."

“He’s a _monster_, Sam, just because he’s Jester’s little toy doesn’t mean I can let him scare the kids.” 

“He was trying to help. Who _wouldn’t_ try to help that little sad girl? Literally _all_ of us.” Samson sighs. "I _talked_ to Elaine, Eloise. She found him in the two sentences they exchanged to be _funny_. She thought the executioner from the north was _funny_. I—I get it. But he's trying, and empathy shouldn't be punished."

Eloise pulls a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and looks stiffly outside, where the children are playing. "Murderers shouldn't be near children," she hisses. "I'm _sorry_, if my stance, as a teacher and a mother, is too stringent for you, Samson. But it's my red line. The children I teach will be far away from that man."

Samson narrows their eyes. "Then don't let it get to a point where children seek empathy from murderers. _Deal_ with Manny."

"He's just _teasing_ her, because he _likes_ her, it isn't—"

"_Deal with it_," Samson snaps, and Eloise finally looks at them, her eyes wide. She seems to at least see how _pissed_ they are. "I deal with Bren—"

"_You're calling that creature by a name now—_"

"And you _deal with that little piece of shit that is making Elaine's life miserable_."

“They’re _children_—“

“That child makes her cry more days than not! He’s ruining school for her, that little girl doesn’t _have_ a family, she depends on _you_ to take care of her. So _take care of her_, or I’ll find someone who _can_.” Samson glares at her. “Be better. Bren is the first person to ask her if she is okay, and that’s a _problem_.”

Eloise looks quietly pissed, but Samson can see from the way she won't meet their gaze and her tense jaw that there is an undercurrent of shame. "I'll deal with it," she mutters.

"If he can't get his act together, we tell his parents he can't come to the painting workshops anymore." She nods, and Samson sighs.

Now, for the other side of this equation.

Samson _grits_ their teeth as they leave their office, walking up the familiar staircase to the corridor of Jester’s room. They haven’t heard Jester storming through the temple so that feels like a _very_ good start. So they can find Bren, and tell Bren that he didn’t _fuck_ up. And hopefully by the time this gets to Jester she knows everything has been settled. Samson knocks on Jester's room several times, and just when they decide he isn't in there the door snaps open, and Bren leans against the doorframe. He has his characteristic shitty, dismissive look on his face, though it softens slightly when he realizes it's Samson. They open their mouth to speak, but Bren raises his hand, and says, "I'm sorry about the girl."

Samson wants to maybe die. "Bren—"

"Won't happen again," he mutters, and moves to close the door.

“Wait.” Samson sticks their foot in the door. “Bren you don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. I came to apologize to you, for Eloise.”

Bren looks down at their foot like he's seriously considering the pros and cons of trying to shut the door again. "I don't know who that is," he says, his voice decidedly irritated. There's always something seething about Bren, like he's bitter no matter how his face appears on the outside—except for when he's with Jester—but this time the resentment seems to be directed internally. His arms are crossed, like he's trying to appear _smaller_, however unconsciously. "But she was _crying_, and it was _disruptive_, and she talked to me first, anyway. I would _never_ let myself be alone with a kid—"

"Bren," Samson interrupts. "This isn't—I'm not... you aren't in _trouble_." From how Bren stiffens, Samson realizes they've stumbled onto the core of Bren's defensiveness. He thinks he's in trouble, and Samson is, however informally, technically in a position of _authority_ over him.

"Take care of the little fuck who's bothering her," he mutters.

“We are. It’s my fault, I haven’t been checking in with the teachers as often as I should have, but they’re very much aware of the problem now, and that _little fuck_ will be getting a talking to,” Sam assures him, nudging their foot in a little more. “But I also came to tell you, that you didn’t do anything wrong. The girl? Elaine? She thinks you’re funny.”

Bren finally loosens his tight grip on the door, accepting that this talk will happen regardless of how much he personally wishes it wouldn't. "I told you I am," he says, and the familiar, if insincere, teasing glint is back in his eyes. "You're just too much of a stick in the mud to appreciate it."

Samson scoffs. "Just don't joke about your drug dealer." Bren bites the inside of his cheek, and Samson thinks about how _strange_ this is, that they have something like a—not an inside joke, but a moment, that they can reference, that only the other person would understand.

"No promises," he says. He offers something to Samson, from the arm that up until this point was hidden with the door, and Samson watches with a raised eyebrow. "The scroll," Bren explains.

“Oh you....you were serious about this. Wouldn’t it make more sense to give this to Jester? She can at least cast.” Sam has a terrible feeling about what Bren thinks they’ll need the _Counterspell_ for.

"Anyone can use a scroll, Samson." Their name sounds uncertain in his Zemnian accent. "And I promised I'd give it to you. As if Jester would ever take this from me."

They sigh. "Bren, what would we possibly need this for?"

Bren's eyes glitter. "_Counterspell_ is the great equalizer. _Counterspell_ gives the rest of us just a modicum of agency. I have no idea how you'll use this, but I am certain that you will."

“.....I don’t mean to sound rude but you sound paranoid as _fuck_, sometimes.” 

“It’s much more than sometimes, take the scroll.”

The scroll feels—_strange_. Samson doesn't understand magic, doesn't use it, but they can immediately sense that Bren packed a _lot_ of magic into this. "This must've cost a lot to make," they breath, examining the runes on the parts of the scroll visible in its folded form.

Bren shrugs listlessly. "Cerberus Assembly money," he mutters. "Most of my assets were tax-exempt anyway, except for the properties. I haven't—I'm used to living on little, so I have shit to spend."

Sam widened their eyes. "Wait—Jester said you liked to do taxes?"

At their tone, Bren _groans_. “I don’t....I don’t _like_ to do taxes but-“ 

“Come with me,” Samson says, already gesturing for Bren to follow them back down the staircase. Bren looks at them hesitantly. “Come with me right now. We have _so so so_ many forms that Jester and I just don’t understand.” 

And Bren groans. _Could’ve been murdering right now_, he thinks, a dark kind of humour making his lips quirk up as he forces himself to follow after Samson._ Could’ve done it. _He grimaces as he’s given a copy of the Nicodrani tax code, the two of them in Samson’s office, and then looks up to the big, hopeful eyes from Samson. He _sighs_. "I... already memorized this."

Samson widens their eyes. "How?"

"I have... a property here. Holdings. In case... well, just in case."

Samson wants to say that it sounds awfully like an escape plan, years in the making, but they aren't that cruel. "So you'll help us fill out these forms?"

“... I… okay.” 

“You’ve done us a great service today, Bren. You really have. Last time Jester sat down to do this there was....she may have lit the forms on fire in her office.”

Bren sighs, looking at the binder in his hands. "I need your budget," he says. "Maybe a desk?"

Samson grabs him by his arm to pull him excitedly to where their spare office is, and then freezes as Bren winces in pain. "Fuck, I'm—"

Bren is already waving away the apology. "Office," he mutters, already looking through the papers and files in the thick binder. "Now."

“... Yes of course, please.” Sam leads them down the hall. “Have… Jester hasn’t healed those for you?”

Bren looks down at his arms. Samson can see the crystals under the skin, glowing slightly where his skin is scarred. "This is more than a single day operation," he murmurs. "She's being… careful."

Samson bites their lower lip, and then decides promptly to risk it. "And I don't suppose you're delaying the inevitable at all."

Bren stills for a second, before absentmindedly rubbing at his chest. "I don't have to tell you that," he says, echoing Samson's words from a couple days ago. He looks at them, with bright eyes and a bitter, shit-eating smile. "Right?"

They have no idea what Bren expects from them. From the way his shoulders are squared, maybe a fight. "Of course," they say. They both finally reach the bare office, and Samson gestures to it. "This is yours, for the time being."

“Thank you.” 

“Oh no, _thank you_, really. None of us have the patience for this. Feel free as much as you’d like. Dinner is in a couple hours if you want to join us.”

Bren smiles like they told a very funny joke, and enters the office, sitting on the seat next to the bare desk. "Right," he mutters. "Let me come to the mess hall, passing by the mural of the woman I murdered, and eat in the same room as the child a woman nearly attacked me for sitting five feet away from, with a bunch of people who hate me. That will go very well."

“... I’m sorry it’s uncomfortable… but you do have every right to eat with us, you know? Everyone suddenly seems to have a moral high ground, like they themselves aren’t liars and thieves and misfits. “

Sam pats his shoulder. “If not, we’ll send you a plate, don’t worry,”

“ … It’s so spicy up here.” Samson watches _shock_ work itself onto Bren’s face as he allows that small tidbit… of being _known_ out past his lips. 

They resist the urge to widen their smile. “_I know_, I lost three pounds when we first moved here just from eating.”

"The Sauerbraten is decent," he says, looking slightly more animated. "That place down the street. They make their Spätzle like my"—he pauses momentarily—"like my mother. I don't know if you've had the chance, but. They're pretty... authentic."

“I haven’t , but I’m going to make a point to go now. It’ll be nice to have a meal that doesn’t bring me to tears. Not that it isn’t _very good_ but...” 

“Spicy.”

“So spicy.”

It's... _nice_, having someone from the Empire, who's from a different corner, but similar enough. "I've never been to the Zemni Fields," they say. "Is it nice there?"

Bren shrugs. "I mean. It's the shittiest part of the Empire."

Samson smirks at that. "Pretty sure that's Rexxentrum."

Bren almost imperceptibly tenses at that, and then he sighs. "Ja, I suppose so."

"Alfield isn't… super fancy, but it's a small town. Nice sometimes. Shitty other times. Do you miss it?"

Bren looks at the binder, and says, curtly, "I have a lot of work to do."

Samson nods, trying not to seem disappointed, because they _aren't_, and it's _fine_ if Bren wants to assert his boundaries. "I'll bring you a plate."

"You don't have to."

"_Bren_." Their voice makes Bren look up. "I'll bring you up a plate."

"Oh… okay then…?" Bren seems kind of surprised by the force behind that, like they might actually care.

Samson smiles as they leave.

For a genius, Bren’s blind spots are… _truly _spectacular.

They leave, and Bren sighs. So it turns out the little sycophant has a backbone, and a personality. He _really_ wishes he didn't know that. He still doesn't know what possessed him to talk about lighting up cigarettes in his youth—finely cut fermented violet leaves rolled in paper, Brunhilde passing one to him with her painted lips curled into a mocking little smile. _Little school boy is all grown up._

"_Fuck you,_" he mutters, in Zemnian. He thinks of Samson, under the sun, asking about how long they kept him awake, and says, "_Fuck you_." He _hates_ that Sam wants to take care of him. He hates that Sam _is_ taking care of him. it's bullshit, and he...he doesn't know why they're easy to talk to. Has to be something the Traveler gives them. They're all _such good talkers._

The taxes are a welcome distraction. It's all a _mess_, but that's mostly because the Nicodrani taxation system is a fucking quagmire. Bren thinks he might send a letter or something, because this is _bullshit_. At least if he's thinking about the contradictory regulations and redundant forms, he isn't thinking about how fucking _furious_ Maste—_Ikithon_—probably is. He counterspelled an archmage. If he isn't so terrified, he might be mildly impressed with himself.

Samson is... clever. More clever than Bren gave them credit for. He'll have to be careful, he might even start to believe them when they speak.

He's working on those stupid forms when there's a plate of food placed next to him, and Jester's arms wrap around his neck. "The fact that those make sense to you is the sexiest thing i've ever seen."

"You're eligible for a tax-exempt status," he mutters. "The fact that you _aren't_, because of some _notice_ provided by the head of the tax committee is fucking bullshit. Have you talked to the judge?"

"Bernard?" Jester ran her fingers through his hair. "He doesn't give a fuck. I already tried to appeal his ruling."

"Well, Article 5.4 isn't the only grounds to appeal," he says. "Article 7.4—"

Jester pulls his chair back, and sits on his lap, pulling him into a kiss.

He almost _smiles_ at that, wrapping his arms around her. "I can't believe this is working for you."

"_You have no idea_.” She grins. "Samson is _worried_ about you," she coos, and Bren grimaces.

"Jester—"

"You made a _friend._"

"I don't think they're my friend."

"They areeeeeee. They _caaaaare_ about you."

"No."

"Yes.”

Her lips are close to his ear. "I _yelled_ at Eloise. Lets Manny be a dick all day but as soon as you're nice to a kid, suddenly she's putting her life on the line."

"Jester you didn't have to do that—"

"They're _my_ kids too, Bren, and you didn't deserve it."

He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to. _I deserve it, Lavorre._ He runs his hand through his hair, and sighs. "I offered to scare the little fuck, so. Don't give me too much credit."

"But you diiiiidn't." She says, singsonging. "I did though, the little bastard has no excuse for behaving that way."

Jester smirks. "You should know, everyone thinks Elaine is very impressive for talking with the cool, mysterious magic man."

Bren sighs, and Jester giggles at his expression. "Magic man," he repeats.

"The kids know that you can do magic, and they love playing with your magic cat, and for the record, they aren't afraid of you."

"They don't know to be," he says, leaning into her touch, and her hand against his hair. "But your assurances are... appreciated." Jester _giggles_, and she kisses him again. Again and again and _again_, right up until she’s straddling his waist. Bren likes it, _loves_ it, and he’s sighing her name, right up until—

A cold voice, in the back of his mind. A memory. _Up the dosage_. He sounds displeased, and Bren doesn’t even realize he’s hissing, _Red_ until Jester is getting off, looking at him with her eyebrows furrowed. Her face is careful, in that way when she’s keeping it open, and Bren just gives her the weakest smile. “_Sorry_,” he manages, hand raising to massage his temple.

“It’s okay,” Jester murmurs. There’s a pause, and then she gives him the _softest_ smile. “Tell me what you need.”

Bren closes his eyes, fighting off the instinct to deflect, to say, _Nothing_. “Just,” he murmurs, resisting the urge to scratch his aching arms, “tell me about your day?”

Jester _nods_, and Bren tries to lose himself in the intricacies of her schedule. Slowly his heartbeat slows down, and when he finally untenses his shoulders, and Jester whispers, _Better?_, he actually smiles, and leans over, pressing a careful kiss against her cheek.

_Better_, he answers.


End file.
